


Foundations

by SaraNoH, the_wordbutler



Series: 180 Days and Counting [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Elementary School, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-07-19 02:44:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7341442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraNoH/pseuds/SaraNoH, https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/pseuds/the_wordbutler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our beloved elementary school teaching staff spend the summer building houses and relationships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blueprints

Thor spread the house’s blueprints over the hood of his pick-up truck. The paper showed the design of all three floors of the home. Bruce and Natasha expectantly looked over his shoulder. The couple had closed on the home two days ago, an hour after finding a buyer for Bruce’s house who was willing to hold off moving in until August . Thor was thrilled for how well things were falling into place for two of his children’s favorite teachers. They certainly deserved it.

“Where would you like to start?” the contractor asked.

Bruce shrugged. “Why don’t we go though what’s already here and what needs to be changed?”

“Let’s look at the kitchen. We already have gas in place for the stove. There are a couple of slabs of marble on hold for counters, but that could be a way to help your budget,” Thor said.

“What other options are there?” Natasha asked.

Thor pulled out his phone and opened his Pinterest app . The fact that he used this particular app frequently amused his little brother to no end, but it had helped Thor a number of times. He used it to advertise his company’s work while stealing ideas from others to put into new homes and remodels. “There are several choices to pick from. We could use quartz, which looks like marble, but is cheaper. You could have a butcher’s block installed on the island.”

Bruce pointed at one of the images. “What’s that?”

“Concrete,” Thor answered. He selected the image to enlarge it. The gray slabs sat atop white cabinets. “It’s become a trend in the last few years. Gives things an industrial look and is rather cheap. We can use some coloring to give it a different look if you have a certain color theme in mind.” 

“We haven’t really talked about paint colors and décor,” Natasha admitted. “As long as there’s a place to live in that’s finished by the time the baby comes, I don’t really care what color the walls or kitchen counters are.”

Thor smiled. “You’ll be too happy and sleep deprived to care about such things.” He nodded at Natasha’s expanding stomach. “May I ask when exactly our due date is?”

“August twentieth,” she answered.

“So we need to be done and have you all moved in and comfortable by the first of August, just in case your little fellow is too eager to wait for his due date,” Thor commented as he wrote a note to himself on the blueprints about when things absolutely needed to be finished. 

“Were any of yours early?” Bruce asked.

Thor shook his head. “If they had their way, my sons would’ve stayed inside Jane forever. The boys were each ten days late. Alva was only eight days late.” Natasha groaned in sympathy. “But that doesn’t mean that yours will behave the same way.”

“Hopefully not,” Natasha agreed. 

“Back to the kitchen, do you have any issues with the cabinets?” Thor asked. “With the unfinished condition they’re in, I could pull them and use them in another house if you want something else.”

“Unless they’re lined with gold and will cost us a fortune, might as well keep everything that’s already inside and established we can,” Bruce said.

“What about flooring?” Thor questioned. “Any preferences?”

Bruce and Natasha looked at each other. “Sounds like we might need to stalk your Pinterest boards,” Natasha sighed.

Thor nodded. “We’ll stick with big stuff for now. Here’s a redesign I did for the stairs. Much more family friendly than a metal, spiral staircase.” From there, he went on to finalize designs and layouts for the rest of the home. While it wasn’t important right now that the couple hadn’t made aesthetic choices for the house, it would need to happen soon if they wanted to stay on schedule. “I usually rely on my partner Heimdall for the design choices. If you want, I can send him over to help you make some choices.”

“Maybe,” Bruce answered politely. “I’m sure we have coworkers who would be more than happy to help us out, too.” 

“Doesn’t mean they should,” Natasha muttered. 

“And we were wondering whether we could make some kind of arrangement to cut back on paying labor if we helped out with the work ,” Bruce said. “Not that we don’t trust your crew, we just—“

“Are two school teachers who are not nearly paid their worth,” Thor finished with a nod. “I’ll oversee the work to make sure it’s up to code and high enough quality for my children’s beloved Doctor Banner and Miss Romanoff, but I see no problem with that. When do we get started?”

* * *

Darcy gritted her teeth. "Well," she said, drawing out the word, "maybe if you cover Tuesdays—"

"I'm teaching on Tuesdays and Thursdays," Loki cut in with a shake of his head. She frowned, clearly puzzled, and he shrugged. "In light of my newly acquired free time, I agreed to teach two intensive summer courses. That said, I can probably switch to Tuesdays in early July."

"You'll have to switch to more than Tuesdays if I go to Yellowstone." He blinked before gawking at her helplessly, and she rolled her eyes. "You knew about this," she grumbled. "Wade's planning a whole summer road trip that ends at Old Faithful. I'll be gone for at least a week."

"And we never discussed that," he pointed out.

"Uh, yeah, we did." She crossed her arms, which in her tank top created a Grand Canyon of cleavage. Loki swallowed thickly and forced himself to look away. "I even tried to invite you, but you kept saying you 'don't do tents and sleeping bags.'"

He snorted at her air quotes. "I never used those exact words in that order," he defended, "but I suddenly remember the conversation. And how you mocked me for suggesting we sleep in a cabin instead of under the stars."

"No, I mocked you for needing a bed," she countered, jabbing her pen at him. "You said it, like, twenty-eight times. 'I don't care what your roommates are willing to do, I need a bed.'"

Loki screwed up his face at her (incredibly forced) accent. "Well, your impression of me needs work."

Across the table, Jane—the silent overlord of these proceedings—sighed and pushed back her chair. "And I definitely need more wine." 

"Only if you share!" Darcy called after her, but her dear friend waved her off.

She huffed a little, her attention returning to her calendar, and Loki tried hard not to study her every breath. After the emotional roller coaster of the last several weeks, sitting at the same table as his former girlfriend felt, well, strange. Like stepping back in time to the tentative peace they'd built after their first ill-advised kiss. But that peace'd grown into something strong and lovely, and the more he watched her as she balanced her pen between her nose and top lip, the more Loki believed something beautiful might develop out of this peace, too.

He snorted at the mere thought. "Foolish optimism," he muttered.

Darcy raised her head. "You say something?"

The question hit him square in the middle of his stomach, and he sputtered slightly. "Nothing," he lied, and she immediately narrowed her eyes. "I simply, uh, wondered about your Fridays. Because aside from the occasional department meeting, I'm usually free.

Despite the obvious suspicion lingering in her expression, she shrugged. "I only work 'til noon on Fridays. And thanks to half-price pool days—"

"Not anymore," Jane said, returning to the table. "Park district budget cuts. Children's museum upped their prices, too." She raised a hand at Darcy's scowl. "We'll still leave you enough money to drag them out of the house, it just won't stretch as far."

"What about your mother's pool?" Loki wondered aloud, but his mouth transformed to sandpaper as both women whipped around to stare at him. He resisted the urge to hide behind his daily calendar. "After all this time, I'd assume—"

"Definitely assumed wrong," Darcy interrupted, her tone curt but still revealing a thin layer of hurt. "I don't exactly ignore her existence, but we're definitely not back on 'borrow the pool for an afternoon' terms, either."

He pursed his lips. "I didn't mean to bring up—"

She flapped a hand at him. "I know. It's . . . " She shook her head and glanced away. "Whatever."

Smiling gently, Jane slid her wine glass over to her friend. "How about you split Fridays?" she suggested. "Loki in the morning, Darcy in the afternoon. Otherwise, Darcy'll watch them on Tuesdays and Thursdays until the end of the summer semester, and we'll reevaluate after." Loki nodded, his attention intent enough on Darcy that he nearly missed his sister-in-law's frown. "I'm hoping Thor'll have enough free time that we won't need you every day, but with this new project—"

Just then, the back door burst open, and a flurry of wet footsteps effectively lopped off the end of that thought. "Mom, Henry broke the slippy slide!" Alva announced, skidding into the kitchen in her sopping wet bathing suit. She threw herself at her mother, nearly knocking them both to the floor and definitely soaking Jane's shirt. "We were having fun and taking turns, and all of a sudden—"

"I didn't break anything!" Henry defended, his hands on his hips and a puddle forming at his feet. "But George wanted it wetter—"

"You wanted it wetter," George countered.

"—and when I tried to unscrew the hose—"

"You broke it!" Alva accused, her voice dangerously close to a wail. She turned her enormous, plaintive eyes on her mother. "Can you fix it? No, wait, can Daddy fix it? Because if we can't use the slippy slide—"

Henry huffed. "It's slip _and_ slide."

"—the whole summer's ruined!"

With all three children staring at her (in various levels of distress, no less), Jane proved her status as the world's most sainted mother by smiling sweetly. "I think you all need to go dry off a little," she said, brushing Alva's soaked hair out of her face. "Henry'll turn off the hose, and once you're not dripping everywhere, we'll figure out how to fix the slip and slide. Okay?"

The children exchanged nervous glances. "You're not going to yell?" George asked.

Jane shrugged. "I'm sure we can fix the slide. But if you ruin the floor with your wet swimsuits . . . "

She trailed off, and within seconds, Alva and Henry darted out of the kitchen, a trail of wet following behind. George, ever the dutiful son, snatched the dish towel off the counter and covered his personal puddle before running after his siblings.

Darcy waited until the door slammed shut to return Jane's glass. "I'm surprised you didn't go nuclear holocaust on them."

Her friend snorted. "We bought three slip and slides at the end of last summer just in case they broke one," she replied with a smirk. "But in case I haven’t said it yet, good luck this summer. You'll need it."

* * *

Bucky sighed and dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets until he saw stars. When his vision cleared, the website open on his laptop hadn’t changed. The cursor still blinked in the first text box, the university’s logo blazing in the top left corner of the screen. 

“If you don’t want to do it, then don’t do it,” Steve said. He’d never turned around from his spot washing dishes in the sink. 

“I do, but… I don’t know,” Bucky replied.

Steve flicked his fingers at the sink to semi-dry his hands before finishing the job with a dish towel. He tossed it onto the counter and spun to rest his lower back against the sink. “We’ve been through this before. A lot,” he said while crossing his arms over his strong and broad chest . 

Bucky ran a hand through his hair. “What if it’s the wrong thing to do?”

“Why would it be wrong?”

“I’m still adjusting my curriculum,” Bucky said.

“You’ve been teaching fourth grade for years. There are no new initiatives being put into place. You’re not rebuilding your curriculum, you’re tweaking. What’s your next excuse?”

“I’m kind of a perfectionist.”

“No,” Steve drew out. “I never noticed.”

Bucky balled up a paper napkin and chucked it at Steve’s head. The blond batted it away with ease and a laugh. “I’m going to obsess over getting every point I can and earning a perfect grade.”

“Were you like this undergrad?” Steve asked.

“Sometimes. Other times I was more worried about perfecting my beer bong techniques.” 

Steve nodded. “I don’t mind living with someone who wants to be as smart and capable as possible. And if you drive me too crazy, I’ll just hide in the garage.”

Bucky squinted. “You hid out there yesterday. Was I being obnoxious?”

“No, I just didn’t want to get dragged into helping you clean the house,” he replied, his face a mixture of guilt and humor.

“If I’m going to be your hired help, I think I deserve some kind of payment.”

“We both know I thanked you last night,” Steve pointed out as he moved to sit down at the kitchen table. “And again this morning.”

Bucky smiled. “It needs to be summer all year long.” 

“Back to this,” Steve said as he pointed to the open laptop. “What else are you scared of?”

“I’m not scared—“ His words dropped off when Steve gave him a knowing look, and Bucky shrugged.

“Your GI Bill will help cover costs,” Steve reminded him. “I’m sure there are scholarships out there that will take care of anything it doesn’t pick up. And if there aren’t any, we can pay for whatever is left.”

“You don’t mind doing without me for a weekend a month?” Bucky asked. “And me locking myself away somewhere to do homework?”

“I’ll manage,” Steve answered.

“You’re not going to have a torrid affair with someone because I’m ignoring you because of school?” Bucky knew the question was a joke, and he hoped Steve would, too.

His husband rolled his eyes. “I could barely find anyone to date before you. What makes you think I’d be able to pull off attracting someone to cheat on you with?”

“Baby, being attracted to you isn’t an issue for people,” Bucky said. “It’s your willingness to reciprocate. Not that I’m encouraging you to fix that particular quirk in your personality by any means, but just know that you’re the only one who doesn’t see yourself as some kind of god walking among men.” 

Steve shrugged off the compliment before nodding at the computer. “So what are you going to do?”

Bucky turned back to the monitor. He never pictured himself in administration. He was perfectly content to stay a teacher for the rest of his career. But going through program would guarantee him the highest pay rank possible, which was never a bad thing. And if something happened and he and Steve had to move away and find new jobs, it would open up the possible options that he could pursue.

But mostly it just scared the shit out of him.

He was always considered to be a kid by his family since he was the next to youngest in the birth order. Being around his young students all the time rarely made him feel like an adult. The only time in his life where he felt like he had to be a grown up was when he was in the Army. And there were some things and feelings about that which Bucky didn’t want to relive. And, granted, he knew grad school wasn’t going to be like fighting in a war, but it was that level of responsibility that triggered something in his brain that made him want to clam up. 

He swallowed that fear, slowly moved his hands over the keyboard, and began to fill in the boxes to apply for the principal certification program.

* * *

"And I really like some of the ideas in the sustainability unit—at least, on paper, we actually start training on those activities tomorrow—but I keep worrying about how to modify it for the younger grades and . . . "

"Mmm-hmm," Bruce hummed as Peter rambled on, his babbling running together into background noise. The same background noise as yesterday, Bruce thought, and probably for the next three weeks of training.

But thinking like that left Bruce feeling uncharitable. He rubbed his forehead. "I thought you said there's other curriculum for the younger grades," he said.

"Well, yeah," Peter replied, his tone hovering somewhere around _hopelessly exasperated_. "But when you compare our budget to some of the supplies for those basic units?" He let out a low whistle, which sounded mostly like blowing straight into the phone. "Plus, I think we really need to move away from disconnected science units to these, I don't know, building blocks? Maybe that's not the right word, but Wade says the sixth grade science teachers see holes in the kids' knowledge, and if we can patch those in by working with some of these ideas . . . "

He barreled on, apparently unaware that he'd outlined this exact same plan the night before (and three times over the last couple months), and Bruce sighed as he wrenched the phone away from his ear. He hit the speaker button, halfheartedly listening to Peter's philosophizing as he opened up the screen with all his texts. Unsurprisingly, all his unread messages came from Peter, and he cringed as he scrolled through all his stream-of-consciousness commentary.

And past several photographs of that morning's handouts.

And—

He rolled his lips together as he squinted at the PDF Peter'd attached to one of his messages. "Does this project suggest using Bunsen burners with third graders?" he asked.

Peter stopped midsentence. "Which one?"

"Whatever you sent me this morning. It calls for several Bunsen burners."

"Oh, that?" Peter replied, sounding suddenly dismissive. "I thought we might want to try it out, but since the first afternoon session . . . "

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right, of course," he replied limply, and Peter barely paused for breath before moving right along.

To be absolutely fair, Bruce liked Peter. A lot, actually. He liked his energy, his single-minded dedication to becoming a better teacher, his plans to expand their STEM program. Everything about him suggested that they'd be friends when Peter eventually mellowed out a little. 

But in the meantime—

Natasha wandered into the room, eyebrows raised. _Again?_ she mouthed.

He shrugged. _Nothing I can do_ , he mouthed back, and she rolled her eyes.

Because Bruce planned on spending his summer in a whirlwind of packing, moving, renovating, and decorating, Peter'd offered to attend four weeks of intensive STEM curriculum training in his place. On paper, the goal was to add at least a handful of modern, relevant units their current science offerings.

But according to the science teacher rumor mill, the district really wanted to groom a few people into STEM specialists.

Bruce tried not to think too long and hard about that rumor, or about how he'd been Fury's first choice for the conference.

He also tried to keep listening to Peter, but—

"You know you're not a first-year teacher anymore, right?" he interrupted, ignoring Peter's strangled noise of surprise as he exited out of speakerphone. "You don't need to run your every thought past me."

Peter huffed a little laugh. "You've, uh, met me, right?" he asked. "Because sometimes, I end up going in about a thousand different directions. And while most of them are good, some of them . . . "

Bruce imagined him shrugging as he trailed off, finally at a loss for words. "I know you think that," he replied, "but you have good instincts. Maybe even great ones, but they won't ever improve if you don't learn to work through them yourself."

For the first time in the last twenty-some minutes, Peter remained completely silent for at least five seconds. "I can't present this all to Fury by myself," he said. "I need backup, and, I don't know, a sounding board, and—"

"You don't need a sounding board for every thought," Bruce assured him. Still hovering across the room, Natasha snorted. He shot her a dirty look before adding, "Maybe we can have coffee this weekend. You can let your ideas gel a little more, and we'll talk through them."

"Yeah?" 

"Absolutely."

Peter breathed a sigh of obvious relief, and about three minutes later, Bruce finally hung up the phone. He stood there for a moment, sort of dumbstruck, before admitting, "I might actually kill him."

Natasha smirked. "It took you this long?"

Bruce shook his head. "I know he means well, but if he doesn't learn to work through these things himself, he might not survive the experience." She chuckled as she kicked her legs up onto the couch, and he frowned. "What?"

She shrugged. "Nothing."

"Your definition of nothing leaves a lot to be desired," he warned her, walking over. She moved her legs just enough to allow him space before stretching them across his laps. "He's a good, well, kid," he said after a moment. "He just needs to relax a little."

"Says the man who teaches kindergarten," she replied wryly—and laughed when, a second later, Bruce's cell phone chimed.

* * *

"What about some kinda vocational tech program? You've seen the commercials, and there's gotta be something—"

"Am I paying you boys to yap like my bridge club or to put down those new pavers?" May Parker demanded, and despite his best efforts, Barney almost cackled that the way his brother immediately buttoned his lip. Like just the thought of crossing May scared the guy half to death, Barney thought. A healthy fear, really, since nobody built up a reputation like May's without busting a couple hundred balls.

Clint stayed silent until May planted her hands on her hips and cocked an eyebrow. Then, he gulped. "Uh—"

"You know you're not paying us, yeah?" Barney cut in, earning a real shell-shocked stare from his big brother. "'Cause other than a couple beers—"

"You mean _my_ beers?" she challenged.

"No, I mean the IPAs outta the variety pack Peter brought over, 'cause god knows he'll never drink anything that hoppy." May snorted, the corner of her mouth twitching a little, and Barney grinned. "We're indentured labor or whatever they were talking about in that documentary we watched last week. You can't complain about us."

He ignored the way his brother muttered "indentured" under his breath to watch May cross her arms. "They sent indentured servants home when they misbehaved," she pointed out.

"And since Clint's air conditioning's still broken, that's punishment enough."

She rolled her eyes at that, but Barney knew without really thinking about it that she wanted to grin at them. She stared him down for a minute before threatening, "You cross me, and I'm calling Wade to help."

Barney shrugged. "Hey, your funeral."

She waved him off, complete with a fake huff of indignation, and Clint at least waited until the screen door slammed behind her to shake his head. "I don't get this arrangement," he admitted.

Barney smirked. "Don't be jealous, Clint. I've still only got the one shithole kid brother."

And just like a shithole kid brother, Clint snorted and flicked mortar at him. 

Barney slugged him in the arm (but not hard enough to bruise) and grabbed another couple bricks from the pile. Behind them laid another— Shit, he'd lost count, but a massive number of pavers, all of them carefully arranged in a chevron pattern and making up May's new front walk. Another three feet of their blood, sweat, and swears remained, but honestly, Barney liked the work. Kept him busy, away from daytime television and, worse, the online job applications that always booted him out about halfway through. He'd started wondering if maybe _sorry, but you're not quite right for our team!_ would work as a tattoo. He'd wrap it around his arm like some college kid's "tribal" bullshit, a reminder that nobody really wanted him and his dirty fingernails.

He glanced at his hands, all covered in mortar and dust, and sighed.

"There's gotta be something," Clint said, the words almost perfectly in time with him arranging his next brick. "With all those new programs popping up—"

"You think I'd be great typing insurance codes into a computer all day?" Barney finished, and his brother pulled a face. He shook his head. "Nah. That shit's not for me. Nobody wants me in an office or, I don't know, poking their furnace with a stick. I'm better off helping May full-time than—"

"Full time?" Clint interrupted, and Barney's gut curled in on itself. He turned away, pretending to reach for his water bottle, but he felt Clint staring him down. "What happened to the job at the sod farm? I thought they wanted you on a trial basis."

Barney lifted a shoulder, like maybe the gesture'd chase away Clint's tense face. "Nothing happened."

"Barn."

He sighed. "The supervisor liked me okay, but the big boss of the place wanted a background check. Said he needed to make sure everybody was on the up-and-up." He snorted, still remembering the damn conversation. "Only test I never figured out how to cheat on's the one that keeps kicking me to the curb."

Clint rolled his lips together. "I'm sorry."

Barney shrugged again. "Not your fault." His brother frowned, about to argue, and he held up a hand. "No, Clint, I'm serious. You didn't do any of this. You figured out how to live without all my same dumbass mistakes, and that's not something you apologize for."

"I'm not apologizing for my life," Clint replied, scowling when Barney rolled his eyes. "Trust me, I stopped feeling guilty about how different we turned out a long time ago. But I'm sorry you can't—"

He wiggled a hand, and Barney raised his eyebrows. "Put together a decent life while also being a felon?"

Clint flinched. "I was going with 'get a job you can hold onto,' but okay, yeah. That, too."

"Job's only part of the problem," Barney muttered under his breath, but he knew from the way his brother reached for the mortar that his hearing aids didn't quite pick it up.

They worked in silence for a while, the same easy rhythm as back before Clint started drumming up good ideas, and eventually, the doom and gloom that kept creeping into Barney's head lifted. May needed him for now, his brother might need him later (something about a tree that needed trimming and not trusting Phil with the ladder), and he could rely on that. At least for a while.

"Besides," he remarked eventually, "it's not all bad. I mean, my air conditioning works."

Clint rolled his eyes. "I hate you," he grumbled—but he smiled a little, too.

* * *

Carol fanned herself with the cash James had just handed over while they walked from the bar to his car. “It’s good to be the queen.”

He rolled his eyes. “You had a fifty-fifty shot on who would win the NBA Finals. Let’s not get too high on our horse.” 

“’High on our horse?’” Carol parroted back. “Were you born in the 1800s?”

“I’m sorry my adorable phrases are from places other than the heart of Boston.”

Carol bumped her shoulder against his. “You should be sorry. Boston is the best.”

“I at least went there for school, remember,” James pointed out.

“It’s your only saving grace.”

James raised his eyebrows. “If that’s the case, I’ll just drop you off at your place and go home for the night. No need to make the evening last any longer.” 

Carol shook her head and again waved the money at him. “Cash was not the only part of our bet on who would be NBA champs.”

He remembered. Heat surged in his blood as he recalled the exact details of their bet. He shook his head to clear his mind of what was to come. Or at least was able to push aside thoughts about what was to come once they got back to his place. James grabbed Carol’s hand and pulled her to a stop. He studied her face, currently expressing a look of confusion. 

She was stunning. Just breathtaking. Her laugh eased the tension in his shoulders. And her touch had yet to stop scalding his skin in the best way possible. He never thought he’d find someone like this. He hadn’t necessarily given up on such a thing, just settled into making work his life. And while his career was still immensely important to him, so was Carol. And best yet, she understood the importance of his work, because she felt the same way about her job. 

James had walked into the comedy club on Valentine’s Day with extremely low expectations. Tony had set him up before, and they never lasted more than a couple coffee dates—if they even made it that far. Tony was sweet to try and make James’s life as happy as his had become after marrying Pepper, but James mostly just played along to help appease his former college roommate. 

And then, he’d met Carol.

Carol who pushed him to be a better man, who laughed and cried without fear, and who cared about people with ever cell in her body. For once, Tony had nailed James’s type. 

“What’s going on?” Carol asked. “Thought you’d want to rush home. I know I do.” She waggled her eyebrows to remind him of his part of the remainder of their bet.

He licked his lips, running through his little speech once more in his head. “Here’s the deal,” he started. “I know I have to take baby steps around you, and that’s fine. I’ll be patient if it means I get to keep you. But I want to give you a head’s up: at the end of the summer, I’m going to propose to you. So you have a couple months to let that sink in. And if that’s not something you want, all I ask is that you let me know before I get down on one knee.”

Carol blinked, temporarily speechless. She closed her mouth and nodded. “Two months?”

James nodded back. “Roughly. If I need to give you an exact date, I can. Unless you want to plan out the whole process of me proposing, but I don’t think you’re one of those women.”

Carol shook her head. “Not really.”

“You okay?” James asked.

“Yeah, I just—“ She took a shaky breath, and James ran a thumb over her knuckles. He wanted to wrap her up completely in his arms, but he wasn’t sure if that would scare her off. She needed her space, and he’d come to accept that. “I just didn’t think you were stupid enough to want to marry me. That seems like a really idiotic thing to do.” 

James smiled brightly. “I’ll be the biggest idiot in the world if it means I get to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“You going to put that in your wedding vows?” James raised his eyebrows at her question, and she held up an index finger with her free hand. “That’s not a yes, just a joke.” She took a deep breath. “Two months?”

“Two months,” James nodded. She didn’t need to know about the ring that’d been stashed away in his desk at work for the last six weeks.


	2. Kitchen

"Wow," Jessica said, blinking. "He actually—"

Carol nodded. "Yeah."

"And you think he meant it?" Those _murder you in your sleep_ eyes narrowed dangerously, and Jessica raised her hands. "I'm not doubting your girlfriend mojo or whatever," she defended, "but since your relationship's pretty much the textbook definition of an emotional rollercoaster—"

Carol sighed, her gaze dropping to her glass. "Ignoring the fact that you're full of shit, yes, I'm sure he meant it. He—" She picked a bit of salt off the rim of her margarita. "I've never seen him so sincere, honestly."

Jessica's stomach clenched. Not in a bad way, necessarily. It mostly reminded her of skydiving in college. She glanced at her own glass. "I don't know about you," she said after a couple seconds, "but I'm not drunk enough for this conversation."

Carol's mouth quirked up into a tiny grin. "You want to do tequila shots in broad daylight?" she asked.

"Who, me?" Jessica plastered a hand to her chest. "I'd _never_ day-drink on a mostly empty stomach. But we order some of those loaded nachos, and maybe . . . "

Carol rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure I need to twist your arm on this," she countered, but Jessica knew her best friend well enough to catch the laughter in her voice.

By the time the bartender brought their third round of shots, Jessica felt pleasantly warm and tipsy, the kind where she seriously considered cat-napping right there on the patio of their favorite Mexican restaurant. She tipped her head back to watch the clouds before asking, "You going to marry him?"

Carol snorted and reached for the queso. "Still not drunk enough for that question."

"C'mon," Jessica whined, nudging her friend in the thigh. "You can't just _not_ decide. The suspense will literally kill me."

"He gave me two months," Carol shot back, and Jessica flapped a hand at her. For a couple seconds, they sat quietly, munching on chips and listening to the cars that passed by. Finally, though, Carol asked, "You going to be okay?"

Jessica squinted over at her. "With what?"

"With all this." She frowned, and Carol raised her left hand just far enough to mimic that one move from the "Single Ladies" music video. Jessica snorted at her. "I love you, but after the way you melted down before, I don't want—"

"A moment of matrimonial weakness to ruin our friendship?" Jessica finished. The word _matrimonial_ felt clumsy on her tongue, and she sat up straight enough to grab her last shot. After slugging it back, she said, "I'm a bigger person than, what, a year ago?"

Carol cocked an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Uh, if you saw how tight my pants were, you'd—" Carol kicked her in the shin, and she snickered. Not for long, mind you, because Carol kept peering at her. "You're too good at this," she muttered.

"At what?"

"At pulling out the piercing gaze even after I booze you up." Carol snorted at that, but Jessica just spent a couple seconds poking at the remnants of their nachos. Delaying the inevitable, apparently, because she still ended up blurting, "I'm happy for you."

Carol blinked. "You are?"

"Are you kidding?" Jessica shot back, throwing up her hands. "You won the boyfriend lottery, and now, he wants to put a ring on it. Meet you at the altar." A thought bubbled into the back of her brain, and she grinned. "Give you little brown babies."

Immediately, Carol's face flushed bright pink. "I am so not ready for kids," she groaned. 

"Yeah, but you'll _have_ them," Jessica pressed, almost singing. Her friend covered her face with her hands. "Chubby little brown babies named Jessica and Tony—"

"Never," Carol vowed.

"—to prove your unending love and devotion to us, your very best—" Carol tried to kick her again, sloppier than the last time, and Jessica laughed as she caught her ankle. They played tug-of-war for a couple seconds before Carol abandoned all hope and left her foot in Jessica's lap. Jessica stroked her ankle. "I am really happy for you," she said after a couple seconds. "Even if you don't end up marrying him, the fact that you're thinking about it means you've stopped running. Or at least, that you've slowed down."

"Yeah," Carol echoed, stirring her ice around in her water. "But what about you?"

Jessica blinked. "Me?"

"Your five-year plan for a man or a dog." She snorted, and Carol prodded her in the stomach with her toe. "Just because you divert all our conversations away from emotions doesn't mean—"

"I kind of changed my plan." Carol stared at her, all wide-eyed and dramatic, and Jessica rolled her eyes. "I'm not joining a cult or trying to date Monica, I just— Well, here. Hang on a second." She dislodged Carol's foot to dig around in her purse (or as Parker called it, her "Bag of Holding") and drag out a slightly mangled folder. 

When she slid it across the table, Carol's eyes widened. "You're—"

"Maybe?" Jessica replied, scratching a hand through her hair. "I crunched the numbers, and I can afford it. I just, I don't know, keep waffling." She watched as Carol flipped through the paperwork. "I'm not done filling everything out, but I have another month to decide. And it'd start in August."

Slowly, like molasses (or the bar service at this restaurant during happy hour), Carol's face cracked into a grin. "Look at you, all grown up and ready to try new things," she teased.

Jessica rolled her eyes. "Shut up," she grumbled—but she kind of grinned, too.

* * *

Clint leaned back in his chair and pondered how this became his life. The “this” in question was having dinner with his husband (great), his boss (not so great), and his boss’s wife (terrifying on all levels). 

Every six months or so, calendars would align and Clint would be informed that he was to cook dinner for the Furys. (Furies? He specialized in teaching language arts. He should know this.) Clint had yet to mention that they never went over to the Fury house for dinner. There were two reasons for that. One: Phil would get whiny and pissy about Clint not liking his friends. Two: Melinda May looked like someone who put poison in a guest’s food for shits and giggles. If she ever giggled. 

So here Clint was, sitting at the kitchen table with Phil, Fury, and May. Wondering, not for the first time, how this became his life.

The other three had strangely been friends at college. After graduation, they’d gone their separate ways only to reunite once Fury divorced the supposed she-devil that was his first wife. (Clint never had the chance to meet her, but if she was scarier than May, then shit.) Phil had even stood as Fury’s best man when he’d married May three months before Clint and Phil had their own wedding. And since then, Fury had given Phil endless hell about not returning the best man favor. Phil always said he didn’t want to scare Clint away from the altar. That was only a half-lie. 

Sure, it was fun to hear stories about what Phil was like in college. Clint always enjoyed getting dirt on his husband, but it was only a matter of time before Phil and Fury got into some philosophical debate about how schools should be run. Clint would try and engage May into a conversation, but she rarely spoke more than five words at a time. Clint wished he could join Birdie for a couch nap. 

“You hear anything from Sitwell?” Fury asked.

“Don’t start,” May warned.

“He finally join some kind of food cult?” Clint joked. “We all knew it was only a matter of time.”

Fury showed a hint of humor on his face as he shook his head. “Bought a ring.”

“Seriously?” Phil asked. “He proposed to Maria?”

“Why are you on a first name basis with her?” Clint questioned. Phil gave him an annoyed look and Clint rolled his eyes. “Obviously I’m not worried that you’re going to run off into the sunset with her, but it’s a little weird that you’re on a first name basis with an assistant principal who's not in our building.”

“You want to guess how many calls he had to make to her about her ridiculous twins defiling his precious library?” Nick commented. “He’s talked to her enough to call her by her first name.”

May shuttered. “So glad I dodged that bullet.”

“Back to the ring thing,” Phil prompted.

“Right,” Fury continued. “He bought it, she found it. Big, all-night conversation about futures and where they see themselves.”

“You mean they didn’t have the marriage talk before he bought a ring?” Phil questioned. 

“Like the two of you did before you jumped from saying 'hi' to husband and husband?” May asked.

“Hey,” Clint said, pointing a finger in her direction. “I don’t judge your relationship.”

“Bullshit,” Fury countered. “But yeah, I guess he just jumped in and bought the damn ring. Didn’t get a chance to put together his dream proposal scenario.”

“Sounds like that may be for the best,” Phil said. “Did they break up?” 

Fury shrugged. “He’s been at a training all this week. And next week starts the whopping two weeks of actual vacation that administrators get. No way am I poking that bear with the stick.”

“Out of curiosity,” Clint asked, “which one of them is the bear in this situation? Sitwell or Hill?” That at least got a snort out of May.

“I’m surprised you didn’t get more out of him when he told you,” May said. “He seemed to be relying on you for relationship advice. Even texted you pictures of rings.”

“Well that was Jasper’s first mistake,” Phil said. “No one should go to either of you how to have a healthy, normal relationship.”

Fury and May smiled and clinked their glasses together. 

Seriously, how had this become Clint’s life?

* * *

"What you need," Monica said, "is a hobby." The whole table groaned in practiced fucking unison, and for a hot second, Jessica Cage seriously considered face-planting into her eggs benedict. Monica just scowled at all of them. "What?" she demanded. "She's sitting here complaining about being bored, and I'm suggesting—"

"That she's a lonely old lady?" Trish Walker—official adjunct to their brunch group since her coworkers all sucked—asked. Across the table, May's eyebrow twitched. "Hey, I'm not calling you old," she defended, holding up a hand. "I'm just quoting Monica, who thinks you're ancient."

"And lonely," Ororo chimed in.

"A barren wasteland, maybe?" Trish suggested.

Ororo nodded. "Destined to wither away like all of Carol's houseplants."

"Are you all done?" Monica broke in, and Trish snickered into her mimosa. Well, Trish and Jessica both, because teaming up on Monica needed to be an Olympic sport. They'd win gold in the all-around and individual competitions. "I wasn't suggesting that anybody's life is barren, I just thought—"

"That I need more to do with my time," May replied with a shrug. "Trust me, I'm trying to keep busy. But my bridge club's a bunch of boring old women fawning over their grandkids—"

Jessica scowled. "People get riled up about other people's kids?"

Trish snorted and rolled her eyes. "Says the woman with the perfect baby."

"Oh yeah?" Jessica retorted. "You try putting her to bed some night. Perfect flies right out the window when—"

"I thought you all wanted to discuss my empty life of lonely despair," May interrupted, and Jessica shut up faster than Peter incriminating himself in front of Fury. The former music teacher reached for her Bloody Mary. "My bridge club's dull," she continued, "the community choir's tone deaf, and I'm running out things for Barney to remodel shirtless."

Trish hummed quietly. "You don't need an excuse for that," she mumbled, and everyone, Jessica included, twisted to stare at her. She blinked. "What? He's almost as hot as his brother."

Jessica literally covered her face with her hands. "Why are we friends?"

Monica shrugged. "She's not wrong."

"Needs to stop skipping arm day," Ororo added. When Jessica peeked out from between her fingers, Ororo waved a hand. "I like nice arms. Shoulders, too, but if I needed to pick—"

"You know I need to work with Barton, right?" Jessica cut in. "Like, every day, I need to look at him standing in the hallway _without_ picturing him half-naked."

"Wait, you stop yourself?" Trish asked with a grin, and Jessica actually groaned aloud. But instead of upping her game (and horrifying them all), Trish paused. "Hang on. How have we all seen Barney shirtless?"

The table fell suspiciously quiet, and when Jessica finally moved her hand out of the way, she discovered both Ororo and Monica poking at their eggs. May, on the other hand, smirked. "Edie from my bridge club brings him a water every time he's out mowing," she said. "Only a matter of time before she tries to touch his abs."

"Not the first place I'd touch," Trish muttered—and followed it up with a curse when Jessica stomped hard on her foot.

The rest of brunch (a biweekly event inspired by the peaceful monotony of summer) passed by pretty uneventfully, with everyone discussing their vacation plans and complaining about living off one giant paycheck for the next nine weeks. Somewhere around the third—or maybe fourth? Shit, Jessica loved brunch—round of mimosas, Monica asked, "Did Romanoff and Banner figure out where they're going to live?"

Jessica snorted. "Mystery of the ages," she replied, flopping back in her chair. "I think they found a house, but you know how they are. All private looks and rumpled shirts."

Trish cocked an eyebrow. "Jess, you once spilled coffee on your jeans and still wore them again. Three times. In a row."

"I had a baby," Jessica grumbled, and she glared when Ororo smirked into her drink. 

"They're renovating a new build," May volunteered, and they all turned to stare at her. She rolled her eyes. "Really? The _Children of the Corn_ routine?"

"Uh, you squeezed personal information out of Silent But Deadly," Jessica pointed out. "We're going to stare."

Trish grinned. "Nice couple name."

Jessica winked at her, and May sighed. "You'd be surprised what happens when you text people occasionally," she chided. "I don't know how much work they're actually doing, but according to Peter—"

"Because that's a reliable source," Monica grumbled.

"—it's pretty time consuming." She flicked her gaze over at Jessica. "And probably low on shirtless Bartons," she added with a smile.

Jessica discreetly scratched her nose with her middle finger. "And," she said, "my husband's hotter than an army of Bartons."

Ororo considered the statement for a split second before nodding. "Good shoulders."

"Good shoulders?" Monica returned. "Good _everything_."

"Head to toe," May agreed.

Trish, predictably, shuddered. "It's like you're objectifying the brother I never had, and I don't like it."

"And just think," Jessica replied with a tiny grin, "they've never heard about what he looks like with his pants off."

Later, after they finished brunch and their ears stopped ringing after Trish's horrified squeal, Jessica dug her phone out of her pocket. _from what i hear, pregnant in the summer is literal hell_ , she texted Natasha. _you need a hand, let me know. eye candy husband absolutely included._

* * *

“I liked it better when you and Uncle Loki were boyfriend and girlfriend,” Alva said while making shapes out of baby carrots instead of eating them. Her brothers had finished their lunches twenty minutes ago and were happily enjoying their “it’s the disgustingly hot part of the summer afternoon so these are the two hours of the day you’re allowed to play video games” window. Alva, on the other hand, was refusing to eat her mandatory serving of vegetables. Darcy had offered a trade for another veggie, but the almost first grader had wrinkled her nose at every choice Darcy gave her. The girl pulled this stunt every now and then. Either she wasn’t feeling well, or something was eating at her. Apparently it was the latter, specifically the subject of Darcy’s love life. 

Or lack thereof. 

“Why don’t you guys like each other anymore?” Alva asked. “You don’t even babysit together now.”

 _Sometimes I still like him too much_ , Darcy thought to herself. “Uncle Loki and I had a disagreement. A big one. So we’re not dating anymore because of that. And we are trying to be friends, but it’s hard.”

“Mommy says you should just talk about it and everything will be okay again. It’s what she makes George and Henry do when they fight over toys and video games.”

Darcy leaned in conspiratorially. “Does talking things out with those two ever really work?”

Alva shrugged. “Only sometimes.” She rearranged the baby carrots one more time. “What did you and Uncle Loki fight about?”

Darcy hesitated. Alva, much like her father, always meant well, but she occasionally had a big mouth at inopportune times. “Your Uncle Loki doesn’t like some of my friends.”

“Why not?” Alva pushed.

“Because they’re boys, and he got jealous and thought that I’d want to date one of them instead of him.”

“Do you?” the girl asked quietly, the fear of a devoted niece noticeable in her voice.

“No,” Darcy answered firmly, using her finger to make a cross over heart—the most sacred vow one could make to elementary-aged children everywhere. 

“Why didn’t you just tell him that?” Alva asked.

“I did,” Darcy sighed. “He didn’t really believe me.”

“That’s mean of him,” Alva muttered. “You never lie to us. He should know that and believe you. Then you could still be boyfriend and girlfriend.”

Darcy’s eyebrows knitted together. “You’re not stuck on being a flower girl in my incredibly hypothetical wedding, are you?”

“No,” Alva answered. “That was just because Paisley in my old class got to be a flower girl. She talked about if for three shows and tells.”

“So jealousy runs in the family?” Darcy asked with a smile . Alva shrugged. “Are you going to eat those carrots, or are you going to sit here in the kitchen all day? Because if you’re not going to eat them, I’m going to go hang out with your brothers.”

“Can I have apples instead?”

“Apples aren’t vegetables,” Darcy reminded her. “I’m pretty sure Doctor Banner taught you the difference between fruits and veggies in his class. Do I need to tell Mister Fury to send you back to kindergarten when I see him in the morning?”

“I do like Doctor Banner more than Missus Howard.”

“Too bad, girly,” Darcy said while ruffling Alva’s curls. “No way your Mom is going to let that happen. Even if she likes Doctor Banner as a teacher even more than you do.”

“She does like him a lot,” Alva agreed. “She says that he’s her favorite teacher, and she didn’t even go to his class. Hey! Did you know Daddy is working on Doctor Banner’s new house? Building it for him?”

“I do know that,” Darcy responded. “And you know how I know that?”

“How?”

“Because you tell me every time I see you,” Darcy told her while tickling her sides. “Now eat your carrots,” she said for the five hundredth time as she got up to empty the dishwasher so it could be reloaded. “Listen, don’t tell your Uncle Loki what we talked about, okay? It’ll hurt his feelings.”

“Does talking about it hurt your feelings?” Alva questioned. 

“A little. Not as much as it used to,” Darcy confessed.

“Can I tell Mommy and Daddy about it?”

“They already know everything about what happened,” Darcy told her. “Both your Uncle Loki and I have had plenty of conversations about it with your parents.”

Alva scrunched her face up a little at that answer. “What about Henry and George? Can I tell them?”

“You know it’s not nice to talk about people like that, right? Did Doctor Banner or Miss Potts teach you about the word gossip?”

“I don’t remember,” Alva responded. “I just know that everyone else knows more than I do and it’s not fair.”

“Maybe I should talk to Mister Fury in the morning about having you go through kindergarten again. And this time, no Doctor Banner since you can’t remember anything you learned in his class.”

“No,” Alva let out in a pained whine. 

“Then eat your carrots already.”

* * *

"Uh, are you planning for the zombie apocalypse or something?"

Rebecca poked a scone with an outstretched finger, and Bucky resisted the urge to smack her with a spatula. Usually, the kitchen sparkled and shone, a testament to Bucky's more obsessive habits. Today, it looked a little like a pastry chef'd suffered a psychotic break and spewed baked goods all over the room. Some fresh scones sat on cooling racks, a bowl of cookie dough balanced on the edge the counter, a ball of bread dough rose slowly on the kitchen table, and a massive container of muffins loomed over everything from the top of the fridge. The ceiling fan fought against the suffocating heat of the oven—and, because it was summer, lost.

When his sister poked the scone again, Bucky twisted to glare at her. "Either eat it or leave it," he snapped, flicking some cookie dough onto a baking sheet. "It's not going to jump up and attack you."

She snorted. "Yeah, I lost all trust in your scones after the Great Raisin Nightmare of 2010."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Those are orange-cranberry," he replied. "The muffins are blueberry, but you need to leave enough for Steve's— Hey!"

He swiped at her fingers with a spoon as she stole a ball of cookie dough off the sheet, but as usual, she jerked out of the way just in the nick of time. Effortlessly, she swung herself up onto the only bare bit of countertop and popped the dough in her mouth. "Want to talk about it?"

"About what?" Rebecca cocked her head at him, and he scowled. "You wanna talk about why you showed up out of nowhere with a stack of books and a bad attitude?"

"Not really," she admitted. He huffed a little, returning to his baking. For a long couple minutes, the only sounds in the room were his spoon scraping against the bowl and Rebecca swinging her legs against the cabinet. Finally, she said, "Ma's driving me crazy."

Bucky grinned. "Tell me something I don't know."

"I mean it," she stressed, kicking him in the ass when he snickered. He whipped around, ready to smack her in the knee, but he stopped when he caught the sort of fed-up look on her face. "I'm starting my last year of school in August," she continued. "Means I need to buckle down and finish up my thesis, never mind plan out the next couple years of my life. But while I'm trying to work, Ma's running around obsessed about the new grandbaby, and it's just making me so—"

She growled, her hands transforming into talons, and Bucky twisted to lean against the counter. "You talk to her about it?"

"And piss her off? Yeah, no thanks." He tilted his head at her until she sighed. "It's a lot easier to talk to her when you don't live with her," she reminded him. "And since I'm a broke student trying to get a degree in literature . . . "

"You'll be living with her for the rest of your life." Rebecca reached her leg out to kick him again, but he dodged out of the way. He studied her—and the sea of baked goods littering his kitchen—before he admitted, "I'm going back to school."

She blinked. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. And I'm excited, mostly, but part of me . . . " Bucky shook his head. "You know how one-track-mind I get about things. Like I stop seeing the forest for the trees. I've already done that to Steve a couple times with other stuff, and now that I'm committing to all this outside work—" He paused, shrugging. "I don't wanna shit on him."

Rebecca rolled her lips together. "He worried about you shitting on him?"

"No, but—"

"And you've talked to him, right? Walked him through all the worst-case scenarios that bubble around up there?" She wiggled her finger in the general direction of his head, and he wrinkled his nose at her. She grinned. "From what I know about Steve, he'd tell you off if you deserved it. Meaning I think you'll be fine."

He snorted. "And you're the resident expert at marriage?"

"Uh, I live with Ma and Dad. Every day's like an episode of _Dateline_ , except nobody dies." He laughed at that, and she nudged him in the thigh. "What do you get out of your program? Some kind of certificate or something?"

He nodded. "Principal certification."

His sister released a long, low whistle. "Those kids better watch out for Principal Barnes, because you'll be checking their desks for dust!"

Scowling, Bucky whipped the dishtowel at her, and she squeaked as she flicked him with water from the sink. Within a couple seconds, she'd tried to smash a (perfectly good) scone in his hair, and he'd smeared a little cookie dough on her face. Maturely, of course.

And that's exactly how Steve discovered them when he wandered in from a shopping trip with his mom: dough-sticky, crumb covered, and wheeze-laughing.

He smiled. "Guess you're both on the mend," he said, hands on his hips.

Rebecca flung a scone at him.

* * *

“Where will the wine fridge go?” Tony asked as he walked laps around the kitchen island .

Bruce gave him an exasperated look, an expression Natasha knew he could pull in his sleep. “She doesn’t prefer wine—not that she could drink any at the moment anyway—and we’ve been attending AA meetings for how long now?”

Tony shrugged. “Fine, then where will the vodka freezer go?” 

Pepper sighed. “Tony, why don’t you go out into the yard and calculate the most efficient sprinkler system for whatever garden setup Bruce plans out?”

“But I don’t know how he’s going to lay things out,” Tony pointed out.

“Then I guess you’ll have to come up with multiple designs,” Pepper replied. 

The couple stared each other down for a moment before Tony grumbled something under his breath and walked out into the backyard, which was still just a bunch of dirt. “Everything okay?” Bruce asked.

Pepper shook her head and sighed. “You know how bored he gets in the summer when he doesn’t have several hundred kids and tweens keeping him busy and thinking. It’s why we usually take so many vacations.”

“But not this year?” Natasha asked.

“He wants to stay home more this summer,” Pepper said, her eyes still looking at the blueprints laid out on the newly hardened concrete countertop of the kitchen island. “I brought some tile samples with me if you want to talk backsplash. And some paint chips, too. I recommend sticking to neutral colors. That way, you can switch out accent pieces and change the look of the room without having to repaint. And with these nine foot ceilings, that’s definitely a bonus. But only if that’s the kind of look and feel you guys want.”

Natasha kept a little bit of distance while Pepper and Bruce talked about tile that looked like wood or slate. It wasn't that she was fine leaving all the décor and design decisions up to Bruce; this just wasn’t her area of home-building she cared about. They’d already fallen into the routine of Bruce picking colors and patterns while Natasha organized everything in its proper place. Bruce wanted a faux leather couch? Absolutely fine, but no way are you going to put it there. They’d found a website online where you put in the dimensions of the room and what would go in it. Natasha was much better and making everything work than Bruce was, so they each had their own jobs to do and they were both fine with that. And since picking flooring wasn’t part of her job duties, Natasha grabbed her bottle of water from the counter and followed Tony outside.

“No vacations this year?” Natasha asked as she walked up to stand beside him.

“What, no water for me?” he fired back, avoiding the subject. Natasha stared him down until he sighed . “You guys are having a big few months. Not that I absolutely have to be around for it, but that’s my brother in science and sobriety in there.” He paused to shrug his shoulders under his vintage rock band t-shirt. “I want to be here, just in case.”

“I’m not going to hurt him again, Tony,” Natasha told him. Tony’s jaw clenched, and he kept his eyes locked on the mass of trees that surrounded the yard of dirt on the property. “You don’t need to hover over him, and you don’t need to be scared of me.”

“Everyone is scared of you, Red,” he pointed out.

“Tony—“

“You can say that all you want, but I’m still going to do it,” Tony said. “I’m still going to doubt you. Sorry, but once bitten, twice shy. And if Bruce won’t be careful like that, then I will.” 

Natasha nodded. “It’s not going to happen.” She caught Tony’s eyes drift to her middle, and she moved a hand to rest on top of her sizeable bump. “Not just because of him, or because we’re building this house together. We both know plenty of couples can have kids, make a home together, and still split, but we’re not going to. Bruce needs your support, not your thinly veiled doubt about us .”

Tony’s breath came out in a sharp huff. “Your hormones are giving you a lot of bravado.” 

Her chin rose in defiance of its own accord. “I’m just saying that we’re going to be tangled up in each other’s lives for a while, so maybe we should at least try and be friends.”

“You fucked over my best friend,” he reminded her.

“He’s my best friend, too,” she replied . “And I’m going to do everything I can never to do it again. And that’s the last time I’ll say that to you, because I’m not going to spend any more time trying to prove to you or anyone else that I—“ Her words dropped off. “We’ve both paid our penance. We’re trying something new and huge and terrifying, and it would be really great if the people around us could help push us forward instead of reminding us all the way we’ve messed things up before. Because no matter what your biased mind thinks, Bruce wasn’t perfect last summer either . We both have acknowledged that about ourselves, and each other. Anytime you want to do the same, both Bruce and I would appreciate it.”


	3. Living Room

"Got any eights?" Wade wondered. "No, actually, sevens. I want sevens."

Peter frowned, glancing briefly between his tray of letters, the Scrabble board in front of him, and Wade. The other guy chewed on his lower lip, obviously deep in thought. And, apparently, really confused about the rules. 

He waited until Wade rearranged his titles for the sixth time before he said, "There aren't any numbers in Scrabble."

Wade jerked his head up. "What are you talking about?" 

"You." He tilted his head to one side like the neighbor's brain-damaged corgi, and Peter sighed. "Wade, you literally just asked me for eights. Before you switched to sevens, I mean."

"Oh," Wade said, waving a hand. "Talking to myself. Thinking about Go Fish while I figure out— Aha!"

Within seconds, he played enough tiles to transform _cud_ (Peter's brilliant play from three rounds earlier) into _barracuda_.

Peter groaned and reached for another beer.

"Hey, don't be sour grapes about it," Wade said, flopping back onto his beanbag chair with the letter pouch in hand. "Back when you played it, 'cud' was a solid choice. Maybe the best one available."

Peter scowled. "Yeah, until you played 'jingle' on a triple word score."

Wade shrugged. "Only because I kept thinking of that coffee commercial. You know the one: 'the best part of waking up is—'"

"Oh, I know," Peter interrupted, and Wade grinned. "I'm still recovering from you memorizing that Stanley Steamer commercial."

"Last I checked, Stanley Steamer makes carpet cleaner!" Wade sing-songed. Peter flicked his bottle cap at him, and he snickered. "So, now that we're safely in the Blanket Fort of No Judgment—"

Peter sighed. "You really need to stop calling it that."

"—and halfway through our Six Pack of Righteous Friendship, you want to tell me why you're a little grumpy cloud of scientific misery?" He snorted at that, rearranging his letters until Wade jabbed him in the knee with a Slim Jim. "Don't make me call Darcy. Because she'll whip out the puppy dog eyes, and if you combine that with the lip-wiggle—"

"You'll both drive me crazy at the same time?" Wade nodded, his face splitting into another grin, and Peter rolled his eyes. "Nothing's wrong," he said, sounding mostly like a broken record. "It's just the combination of training and lesson planning and my meetings with Bruce. It's like I don't get ten seconds to breathe. Which is usually okay, but since it's summer . . . "

He trailed off, abandoning his Scrabble tray to lean against the front of the couch. There, under the roof of Wade's surprisingly well-crafted blanket fort and surrounded by snacks and beer, Peter felt comfortable for the first time in weeks. Not, of course, that his brain really slowed down, but at least he had a throw pillow to sit on and Christmas lights strung up around him (and held in place with duct tape, because Wade).

Better still, Wade stayed silent for an unprecedented twenty seconds before blurting, "She's back in sixteen days."

Peter frowned. "Are we talking about your summer art class again? Because if you're really into that model or whoever—"

"Uh, one, Hot Figure Drawing Guy very clearly identifies as male," Wade broke in. "And two, I'm obviously talking about your girlfriend. In Switzerland? Travelling the world, meeting new and exotic people, and killing their lab animals?"

" _One_ dead lizard is not a crisis," Peter reminded him, but Wade just flapped a hand at him. They scowled at each other for a second before Peter finally groaned and shook his head. "You want me to admit that I miss Gwen? Fine. I miss her. I miss her like somebody cut off one of my feet, and we keep missing each other on Skype."

Wade tilted his head to the side. "I'm not going to tell her that you compared her to your foot."

"You know what I mean." He dodged the L-tile that Peter flicked at him, grinning again, and Peter sighed. "I want her to be successful," he admitted. "She deserves the whole world knowing how smart she is. But a month in Switzerland feels like a lifetime, and if she keeps being courted by all these international universities—"

"She'll meet some guy who's not educating the youth of tomorrow while hopped up on six cups of coffee and marry him, instead?" Wade asked, and Peter felt his face flare red. "I mean, assuming that's your endgame. Because Gwen's great. Like, _would be a rockstar-slash-superhero in an alternate universe_ amazing. And if you don't lock it down—"

"I'm an idiot, I know." Wade nodded emphatically, and Peter swigged his beer. "I don't want her to feel like she's trapped with me, though, you know? She needs a chance to establish her career. Pinning her down makes me feel pretty terrible."

"Yeah, okay, that's halfway fair," Wade acknowledged, "but only if you overlook the fact that you can't trap someone who _wants_ to be there. At least, I think." Peter snorted, and Wade poked him with the Slim Jim again. "And even if she's surrounded by Swedish—"

"Swiss," Peter corrected.

"—super-hunks right now, she loves you. With your brain and your glasses and your skinny spider-legs and what I assume is a _very_ respectable c—"

"Wade!" Peter squeaked as his whole body flashed red-hot. Wade opened his mouth, clearly ready to argue, but Peter shut him up by quickly slamming down the word _cat_. "Done, and look: your turn."

Wade raised an eyebrow. "You sure you want to do that?" he asked.

"Since it's that or hearing the rest of that sentence," Peter answered, "absolutely. Your turn."

Wade shrugged and passed the tile bag over.

And a second later, Peter watched Wade play _triptych_ using his T.

* * *

Natasha walked up to her front door. Well, her old front door. Before she could even knock, it swung wide open and Sam greeted her with a patented gap-toothed grin. “What up, girl?” he asked before wrapping her up in a hug. Sam released her and shook Bruce’s hand. “Good to see you, man.” 

“How’s the place treating you?” Natasha asked.

Sam’s chest puffed out proudly. “I’m officially the building’s new hero. Changed three light bulbs for some of the old ladies around here and can almost open my own baked goods store with their thank you gifts.”

“Just watch out for Old Lady Kranski,” Natasha warned.

Sam shuddered. “She gave me the evil eye when I came in from my run the other day. I think I felt myself lose five years off of my life.”

“At least you don’t live in Spandex. That earned me a lot of glares.”

“She’s just jealous,” Sam replied while stepping out of the doorway so Bruce and Natasha could walk in. 

Natasha’s eyes immediately drifted around the space, noting all the changes. Sam had been busy not only with moving in but repainting the walls from a shade of beige (something Natasha never really cared for but didn’t hate enough to spend time and money changing) to a medium gray. He’d pulled up carpet and laid down what sounded like engineered hardwood as she walked on it.

This is what building a house had done to her. 

While the furniture was laid out differently, and the smell in the air had changed to something more masculine, Natasha could still clearly see the afterimages of her old home.

“Changed much?” Sam asked.

“A little,” Natasha answered. “Looks good. You’ve certainly earned yourself this housewarming party.”

“Please tell me you’re not cataloging all the way your sex nooks have changed,” James commented from across the room.

“Sex nooks?” Steve questioned.

“I’m just saying, that’s her reminiscing face,” James said. “And if it’s sex-related, I don’t want to hear about it.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Sam replied. “Bruce, I know I don’t know you well, and I’m certainly not going to try and steal your girl, but Nat, anytime you want to share those stories, I’m all in.” 

“Do we need to find you a girlfriend?” Carol asked from the kitchen. “You’re sounding desperate.”

“I’m just taking note of what your boyfriend looks like,” Sam replied. “If you two split up, you know where you and your impeccable taste in men can find me.”

Carol rolled her eyes. “Are you going to be another male co-worker who is also into dudes? I mean, I’m all for diversity, but we have plenty of it. And it’s really unfair to the women who work with me. It’s either a sea of gorgeous gay guys or Stark.” A few feet away from her, Rhodey cleared his throat. “Clearly, I don’t care who he wants to date because I’m happily taken, but if I have to hear Darcy or Jess whine about it one more time . . . ” She paused and tilted her head. “And honestly, if you can tell me Tony has never banged a guy—“ 

“No one wants to hear this,” Steve grumbled.

James shook his head. “Don’t set Sam up with Jess Drew. I’ve worked with both of them, and he doesn’t deserve that.”

“Hey,” Carol warned out of best friend duty. “True, but watch it.”

“What about Darcy?” Sam asked. “Front office beauty?”

Steve nodded. “You’d be the physical opposite of her last boyfriend.”

Sam looked over at Natasha. “You know, I was hoping we could rekindle things. I’m happy for you and all, but a little heartbroken we can never be a thing again.”

“You were worried she was going to kill you with her thighs,” James reminded him.

“Yeah, but what a way to go,” Sam mused. 

From the closed off bedroom, Natasha heard a cat-call whistle and shook her head. “You still have that stupid bird?”

Sam crossed his arms. “That’s the adjective you want to choose?”

“Fine. I guess it’s not my fault his owner only taught him to whistle the most obnoxious commercial jingles in history,” Natasha replied.

“Seconded,” James threw in.

“What kind of bird?” Bruce asked, his adorable science brain taking over and ignoring the context of the conversation around him. 

“Crimson Rosella. Had him for about five years. His name is Redwing.”

“Parrot?” Bruce questioned.

Sam nodded. “Species of ‘em, yeah. From Australia. Can only say a couple of words but are _Hunger Games_ level good at whistling back whatever tune you give them.”

“You should bring him to school with you,” Bruce suggested. “Probably safer with whistling than repeating back any inappropriate words.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose. “Sounds like there’s a story to go along with that.”

“Let me eat some of that pizza I smell, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

* * *

Pepper sighed. "Are you actually sulking?"

"Me? Sulking? Are you kidding?" Tony slid out from under the car, his eyebrows raised. "I'm obviously dealing with some much-needed vehicle maintenance down here. And even if I wasn't, I don't have anything to sulk about."

"Really?" Pepper replied.

"Really," he promised. "Cross my heart, hope to die, all that stuff."

He drew a rough approximation of an X across his chest, and Pepper planted her hands on her hips. All around them, dozens of components for some undisclosed part of Tony's convertible—maybe the engine, maybe not—laid on the garage floor. Some shone, lovingly polished within an inch of their metallic lives; some were smeared with motor oil and other, less identifiable liquids that left streaks on the concrete. Really, the whole project looked like a toddler who'd thrown a temper tantrum and scattered his toys in the process.

"Well," Tony eventually said, "if we're done with this conversation—"

"When are you going to stop licking your wounds?" Pepper interrupted, and immediately, her husband snapped his mouth shut. He glanced away, his expression somewhere between guilty and scolded, and she sighed as she dragged a stool over. "Contrary to popular belief, I'm not totally blinded by your big brown eyes and witty repartee," she told him, inspiring a snort. "Even though you tried distracting me, I saw the way you looked after your conversation with Natasha—and how you've acted for the last couple days. Like someone punched you in the stomach repeatedly."

He jabbed a finger at her. "You know, actually, back in high school—"

"Tony." He rolled his lips together, and she rested her thighs on her elbows. "I don't know what she said," Pepper pressed, "but you obviously took it personally. Too personally, which means she probably hit the nail on the head. Right?"

Ten full seconds passed before he shrugged. "She wasn't wrong, exactly," he admitted. "At least, not when it comes to how I feel about their relationship and the statistical likelihood she'll hurt him again." Pepper sighed, and he raised his hands. "Look, I know you like her. She's your redheaded soul sister or whatever. But I can't help but worry about Bruce. Not after last summer's unprecedented disaster."

"Their relationship is a foreign country, Tony, and you know it." He rolled his eyes at that, but Pepper pinned him with a glance. "And more than that, you'd never let Bruce treat me the way you keep treating Natasha. You'd storm the castle if he even looked at me sideways."

Tony crossed his arms. "You haven't hurt me."

"Not yet." His face fell, almost hurt, and she shook her head. "I'm not saying that it's inevitable, just that I could. And if I did, and you forgave me? You'd expect Bruce to do the same." When he pursed his lips again, she shrugged. "I can't stop you from feeling betrayed by whatever Natasha said. But I _can_ tell you when you're being a terrible friend."

He scowled. "I'm not—"

"They're packing today." He stopped mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open, and she smiled. "You think you're the only person Bruce texts?"

"No, but I'm now seriously worried about the two of you plotting my demise over secret lunches I know nothing about," he retorted, and Pepper chuckled. He studied her for a second before asking, "He grill you on all my excuses?"

"No, but I think he was testing the waters." Tony scrubbed a hand over his face, and Pepper wheeled the stool close enough that she could card fingers through his hair. "If this'd happened a year ago, you'd be over there every day," she reminded him, "and not to police their relationship. You'd be helping with projects, suggesting at least thirty different nursery themes, driving everyone crazy. Bruce obviously misses that friend, which means you need to stop licking your wounds and be there."

Tony huffed out a hard breath. "People in wound-free houses shouldn't throw salt, you know."

"Except when it comes to my friends, I try to avoid wounds all together." He snorted, and she smoothed her thumb over the creases on his forehead. "Promise me you'll text him. You don't have to help them pack up the house. Just let him know that you're still here, even when you're waiting for the stitches to heal."

He scowled. "You think we've tortured this whole wound metaphor enough?" he wondered.

Pepper lifted a shoulder. "I might be able to squeeze in a triage joke if you give me a couple minutes."

"See? Knew I shotgun-married the right woman." 

She snorted, almost chuckling, and he tipped his head up to smile at her. Like she'd just hung the sun for him, and her heart clenched a little. She pushed back the stool. "I feel dirty just being out in this mess," she informed him. "I need a shower."

Tony stared after her, frowning. "You know, call me crazy, but I could've sworn we were having one of those moments where we started with eye contact and ended with sweaty sex against the nearest wall."

Pepper glanced over her shoulder and smirked. "Showers have walls too," she reminded him, and he almost tripped as he scrambled to his feet.

* * *

Bruce sighed as he folded another box from a flat plane into a functioning container to be filled with more books from the living room. He knew to only fill the bottom third with his science journals and novels before stuffing the rest with clothes, or else they’d be too big of a pain to heft and move. He ran a thumb lovingly over a magazine in a cellophane envelope. Inside was the first published article where he was listed as an author. That life, the one where he researched and filled his head with theoretical physics, felt like ages ago. But he could still vividly remember the excitement of holding the journal in his hands for the first time and seeing his name in print. 

With a wistful smile, he placed the journal in the new box. He looked over at Natasha, who was stretched out on the couch, pillows supporting her back and one of the baby name books she’d borrowed from the library balanced on her stomach. “You going to help me pack or just supervise?” Bruce asked.

“I don’t recall you helping me pack up my condo,” Natasha replied, eyes staying on the book’s text.

“I was in meetings for three days straight.”

“Excuses, excuses,” she muttered, but humor was clear in her voice. 

“Your place barely had anything in it,” Bruce argued.

“Not my fault you’re a packrat. A trait that will not carry into our new place, by the way,” Natasha warned. “Pick a letter. And a number.”

“Are we playing Battleship?” Bruce asked.

“No, the boy is going to need a name. And we’re not going to be those parents who are scrambling to think of something because we’re about to be released from the hospital and the birth certificate is still blank. Number and a letter.”

“Eight,” Bruce said before giving her a wry look. “And the letter Q.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, but nonetheless flipped pages in the book. “Quirinus is the only Q name with eight letters,” she said a moment later. “Veto. Try again.”

Bruce slid the third-filled box across the carpet and began to fold another box into shape. “C-four. Not in the explosive sort of way.”

“You know you and Tony are the only ones who think those kinds of jokes are funny,” Natasha commented as she flipped back toward the front of the book. “Cade, Carl—no, Cary, Chad—“

“No,” Bruce interrupted. When Natasha raised an eyebrow at him, he shrugged his shoulders. “Worked in a lab with a Chad once. Not my favorite person.”

“Chaz,” Natasha continued, adding jazz hands to reading of that particular name. “Chip—nope, Clay, Coby, Cody—“

“Not after having Cody Livingston in my class,” Bruce said.

“You only had to have him for one year, so stop whining,” Natasha said. “Cole, Cory—another student I don’t want my kid to share a name with, and Curt. Anything in that list sound appealing?”

“Not at the moment,” Bruce said. “What about the letter D and the number nine?”

“You realize with a name that long we’re going to have to come up with nickname, too, right?” Natasha pointed out, sounding not at all thrilled with coming up with a second name.

“I’m sure we can manage,” Bruce encouraged.

Natasha sighed and stated the mantra that was cropping up more and more in her pregnancy: “We are only doing this once.” Bruce hid his smile by turning to grab some more books off of a shelf. “D’artagnan—which I think will only encourage sword fighting, DeForrest—and I know you love _Star Trek_ , but—“

“I’m just proud you could make that link,” Bruce replied.

“Delphinius, Demetrius, Diederich, Dionysios—don’t want him to be a wine binger, Dobroslav—“

“Do you know what that means?” Bruce asked. “Sounds Russian.”

“Good and glory, and let’s avoid Slavic names. Dominicus, and Donatello. I don’t know you about you, but I’ve had my fill of _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_.”

“We could say he was named after the artist,” Bruce offered.

“Describe one piece created by Donatello,” Natasha challenged.

“Touché,” Bruce said. “Anything grabbing your attention?”

“Not really,” Natasha answered. “Either the names are weird, remind me of nightmare students, or are just blah.”

Bruce rolled his lips, thinking of a question that had bounced around in his mind since Natasha had told him she was pregnant nearly six months ago. Remembering that they were striving to be better with communication and stronger in their relationship, he swallowed and took a deep breath. “What’s his last name going to be?”

Natasha looked at him with knitted eyebrows. “Banner. What else would it be?”

“We’re not married—and we don’t have to be, ever, if you don’t want to—so there’s the possibility that—“

“You’re his father,” Natasha said. “He’ll have your name.”

Bruce nodded, emotions trying to stick in his throat. “Thanks,” he said softly before diverting his attention back to packing so as to start crying like a mush. “Middle name could be Romanoff,” he suggested.

“Would make it easier only coming up with one name,” Natasha said.

“But if he asks, we won’t tell him that was our reasoning, right?” Bruce asked with a grin. When Natasha didn’t respond, Bruce looked over at her. Her eyes were soft and staring at one point on a page. Bruce crawled over to the couch, too lazy after spending the whole day packing to walk the five feet, and she pointed to a name. Bruce rolled the word around in his head and smiled. “We have to try the name test.”

“Name test?” Natasha questioned.

“Something Doctor Foster told me about. You have to stand in the back door and yell the full name. See if it feels right on the tongue. So c’mon.” Bruce stood and offered his hand.

“Where are we going?” Natasha asked.

“To our back door,” Bruce answered.

It was a fifteen minute drive to the new house. Bruce opened the front door and used his cell phone to shine light through the dark, mostly constructed home. He led Natasha by hand to the kitchen and threw open the back door. “On three?” he asked, and she nodded. Together, they yelled three words in unison into the dark woods. “What do you think?”

Natasha nodded proudly, a hand moving to rest on her stomach. “I think it passes the test.”

* * *

"You wire this up with your eyes closed?" Barney asked, scowling. "Think I've met monkeys with a better sense for this shit."

Clint snorted, his strangled almost-laugh sharp enough that he almost toppled the ladder, but Phil crossed his arms over his chest. "I watched a couple YouTube tutorials," he defended, "and Steve said—"

"Steve the guy with the HGTV hard-on?" Barney interrupted. Clint snickered again, harder this time, and his brother swatted at his head. "You knock me off this thing, you're paying my medical bills. Probably spoon-feeding me yogurt, too."

Clint rolled his eyes. "You have May for that."

"Nah, May's gotta deal with Peter when he finally loses his last couple marbles," Barney replied. He gestured to the toolbox. "Hand me the wire cutters. I'm gonna fix this mess your husband made."

"I didn't—" Phil complained, but the brothers sent him identical looks of suspicion. He screwed up his face. "I followed the tutorial perfectly," he grumbled.

Barney shook his head. "First mistake is listening to some twenty-year-old with a soldering iron," he advised, returning to the ceiling fan.

Or rather, returning to the skeletal remains of their ceiling fan, a dangling mess of empty lightbulb sockets and twisted wires. As a summertime surprise to his husband, Phil'd replaced their noisy old eyesore with a sleek new model, but it'd lasted all of three days before crapping out on them. And after forty-eight hours of toggling switches, peering at the wiring, and swearing at the internet, Phil'd caved and called in the cavalry.

And when Melinda'd laughed hysterically before hanging up on him, he'd sighed and called Barney.

He watched as his brother-in-law finished adjusting one of the wires, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face. "Looks like you just needed to hook them up a little tighter," he diagnosed, glancing down at Phil. "No permanent damage."

"Except to his ego," Clint chimed in. When Phil shot him a dirty look, he raised both hands. "Look, Phil, I trust you with pretty much everything. The house, the car, work stuff, the yard, Birdie." Even asleep, their dog rolled over to show her belly. "But with home improvement and cooking, you're . . . "

He trailed off, shrugging, and Phil rolled his eyes. "That bad?" 

"To be fair, nobody cooks like Clint," Barney said. "It's why you're paying me with dinner and beer instead of cash."

"Even though May feeds you fine," Clint reminded him.

Barney shrugged. "A guy can't live on chicken alone, and that's all she cooks. Screwdriver?" Clint handed him the tool, and he started reattaching the fan's base to the ceiling. "Plus, what else am I gonna do? Watch _Game of Thrones_ and crash at ten?"

"You do realize that's what we do, right?" Phil asked, eyebrows raised. "We might supplement with a little _American Ninja Warrior_ or that British show with all the baked goods—"

Clint scowled. "Don't pretend like you don't know the name."

"—but we're not exactly going out to paint the town red. If anything, we're asleep more than we're awake."

"But we pack our waking hours _full_ ," Clint promised, and Barney pulled a face at the dirty little twist in his voice. "Besides, we're teachers. We earned our naps."

"You say that on days when all we've done is nap," Phil reminds him.

"Don't see you complaining," Clint retorted, and he bumped their hips together before helping Barney with the fan blades.

"I don't wanna paint the town red, either," Barney admitted about a half-hour later, his feet up on the coffee table. Outside, Clint whistled to himself while he grilled; inside, Phil and his brother-in-law drank beer in the breeze of the repaired ceiling fan. "But I spent my whole youth or whatever fucking up, you know? In and out of jail, not really caring what this part of my life looked like. Most of what I'm doing now feels like starting over."

"That's because you are," Phil said, smiling when Barney blinked at him. "You forget: Clint's told me your whole history. And according to him, this last year's the longest you've gone without sabotaging yourself."

Barney shrugged. "More or less."

"Then go ahead and embrace it. Make plans. Find something you love and follow through on it. Like, I don't know, that." Phil gestured to the ceiling fan with his beer bottle. "I spent eight hours watching internet tutorials, and I still messed it up. Only took you an afternoon. Combine that with all the work you've done for May Parker, and you might be on to something."

Barney nodded roughly, his attention still mostly drawn to the fan. Finally, though, he glanced over at Phil. "Eight hours?"

Phil felt the tips of his ears redden. "In my defense, that's including a couple of the written articles I read."

Next to him, his brother-in-law grinned. "You're fucking hopeless."

Phil shrugged. "Worked out pretty well for me so far," he replied, and Barney laughed.

* * *

“They know we’re trying to start a movie, right?” Trip asked.

Skye nodded. “Jemma thinks she’s finally perfected her crack popcorn concoction. They’re all waiting in the kitchen for the final product.”

Trip smiled. “They clearly don’t know that she won’t let anyone taste it until she’s replicated the flavor successfully three times.”

“She’s such a cute little scientist,” Skye replied. “But if she doesn’t feed me sweets soon, she’s sleeping in one of the beds we pretend we sleep in separately when her parents visit.” With that, she hopped up off the couch and headed for the kitchen, and Trip followed her. “Guys, _Galaxy Quest_ isn’t going to watch itself.”

Jemma pouted her bottom lip. “Do we have to watch an Alan Rickman flick? It’s still too soon for my broken British heart.”

“Says the girl who watches _Harry Potter_ non-stop,” Fitz muttered. 

Jemma shot him a dark look before turning to the other two guests—Wade and his roommate Peter. “Pardon his sour mood. He’s just sad because he’s in love with one of the high school physics teachers and won’t see him until we have the district-wide secondary science teacher meeting in the beginning of August.”

“That’s not true,” Fitz argued, but his blushing cheeks challenged the veracity of his claim.

Wade clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Describe this physics teacher.”

“Wade,” Peter warned.

“What?” Wade questioned. “Are you telling my good friend Fitz here that he isn’t deserving of a mind-blowing blowjob?” 

“Let’s just start with a date,” Jemma said.

Skye snorted. “No one believes you’re a prim-and-proper prude. And if they do, they can just ask us,” she said, pointing between herself and Trip. “We could tell stories for hours and hours.”

Trip shook his head. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“I do,” Skye proclaimed proudly. “But as for Fitz’s crush, his nickname is Mack. Mister Mackenzie to his students. And he’s a mountain carved out of chocolate.” 

Wade tipped his head to the side. “Dark or milk chocolate?”

“Milk,” Fitz answered quietly. “Broad expanse of a man. Cute little freckle on his nose.”

Skye looked at the science teacher. “Did you break into my booze stash already?”

“Maybe a little,” Fitz answered. 

Wade nodded and clapped his hands together. “So what’s our plan?”

Peter shook his head. “No one needs you to set them up on a date.”

Wade pulled an expression of deep hurt. “Just because your girlfriend is in Europe and you can only have Skype sex at the moment—and don’t deny that you do that, I know better—doesn’t mean that others can’t get them some.”

Peter shrugged and then gave in to help out his science-loving teacher. “I’ve been doing a lot of science curriculum work with middle school teachers to get our students prepared for when they walk into your building. You could say you’re trying to do the same with your students. Meet about what high school science teachers wish students learned in middle school.”

“And then fuck,” Wade finished. 

“You could stalk him on the internet,” Skye suggested. “Find out his likes, learn about them, and then show up at a regular hang out. Meet him that way.”

“And then fuck,” Wade said.

“Or,” Jemma jumped in. “You could not stalk him like a crazy person. Instead, just wait until our district science teacher meeting, make sure you get invited to wherever he’s going for lunch, and meet him that way.”

“And then fuuuuuuuuu—“

“We got it, Wade,” Peter said.

“You single?” Trip asked.

“Only because I’m too hot to handle,” Wade answered.

“At least you didn’t start in about your male figure drawing class guy,” Peter commented.

“Can you not do that?” Wade asked. “You know even mentioning him around me has a fifty-fifty chance of giving me a boner.”

Trip’s eyebrows rose. “Is this guy serious?” he asked Skye.

“Yep. Isn’t it awesome? I’m not the craziest person in this house right now.”


	4. Outside

Tony stuck the shovel into the ground and leaned on the handle. “You going to talk to me? Didn’t know you were the garden in complete silence kind of guy.”

“I’m just thinking,” Bruce said without turning around. 

His best friend was kneeling on the ground, sorting packets of seeds. From where he stood, Tony could make out the labels—lettuce, corn, kale, and carrots. He fought off a full-body shudder and the desire to speed dial his favorite pizza place . “You’re allowed to think out loud,” he offered, but Bruce didn’t respond.

They’d been in Bruce’s new backyard for an hour. Tony had followed him to the house after their Saturday morning AA meeting without asking after Bruce had turned him down for a traditional milkshake and chili cheese fry feast . Maybe that wasn’t the best move, but Tony had found that if you wanted to get something out of Bruce, you had to stay on him like a komodo dragon. Tail your prey for days until they collapse and give in to the inevitable.

He’d also learned about komodo dragons from Bruce. 

Tony tried to keep frustration out of his voice. “Can you just yell at me and be done with this? I mean, I can guess that you’re mad at me. Don’t really know specifically why, but I’m sure I did something to piss—“

“When you thought Pepper was pregnant, what did I do?” Bruce asked.

“Umm—“

“Was I disrespectful to her? Did I barely cover up the fact that someone—actually someone and a baby—was taking my best friend away from me and cutting into my relationship time? Did I treat Pepper like you treat Natasha?” Bruce asked. His voice never grew loud, but his hurt and exhaustion were evident.

“No,” Tony answered quietly.

“No,” Bruce echoed. “Can we stop with this please? I’m so tired of the pretty much herd of elephants in the room when it comes to this. I don’t want to have to say it, but you know if I have to pick one of you, you don’t stand a chance.”

“I was never going to push it that far,” Tony said, his chest tightening with every word spoken in this conversation. 

“I—“ Bruce shook his head and huffed a bitter breath of air. “I don’t know why I’m trying to tell you this, it’s not like you’re going to listen anyway, especially when I told you that I wanted to spend some time by myself in the yard,” he muttered. “Look, I’m just tired. I’ve got a house to get ready, a baby coming, and neither Natasha nor I are great at sleep at the moment. Just… I’ve got to go to the store and get something. You want to keep digging up garden plots, fine. You want to go home, fine. Just please stop following me around.” 

“Look, I’ll run to the store,” Tony offered, willing to do anything at the moment to make Bruce feel better. That was why he’d stalked Bruce to the yard, but apparently, that message hadn’t been broadcast well. Or at all. “You stay here, get your mother nature on, and I’ll go get whatever you need. Just give me a list.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Bruce said as he walked off.

Tony watched his friend’s retreating back. Pepper’s lecture about his attitude toward Natasha rang in his ears, and he swore to himself while kicking at a pile of dirt. Like a child. Apparently his usual temperament. 

He knew it used to be. Maturity had never been his thing, and he could admit that. He was a spoiled brat growing up, the most extreme definition of the term . He’d pissed away too much of his life on booze, drugs, and random hook-ups. He’d thought getting his life together would change things for the better, and it had, but it had been terrifying as shit. But then he’d found Bruce, an anchor that grounded him in uncharted, stormy waves and made sure he stayed where he was supposed to despite the utter chaos Tony’s life had become . Tony loved Pepper, obviously, and Rhodey, but Bruce occupied a different spot in his heart. It was because of Bruce that he’d met Pepper, and because of Bruce that his friendship with Rhodey hadn’t totally eroded because of Tony’s jackassness.

And this was how he’d said thank you.

Jackass.

“Bruce?”

Natasha’s voice carried across the yard, and Tony could pinpoint the moment she realized it was only him out there by the look on his face. “He ran to the store,” Tony said, slowly approaching the back door. “Something I can help with?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Natasha replied, starting to close the door, but Tony called out her name.

“You got a minute to talk?”

* * *

Thor stepped up onto the front porch. He rocked back and forth on his feet and nodded in approval. His trained eye noticed how some of the planks had been replaced, but whoever had done the work had managed to match the appearance fairly closely to the existing wood . It was a sign he was at the right place, but just in case, he checked the house number screwed into the door frame before ringing the bell. He smiled widely at the person who greeted him. “It is a delight to see you again, Missus Parker.”

The retired music teacher waved him off. “Oh, Thor, how many times do I have to tell you to call me May?”

“Apparently, at least one more time.”

“What brings you here? Other than to lament that your children will miss out on my wisdom when it comes to musical education?”

Thor chuckled. “I’m not entirely sure that you will miss the chance to have all of my children for years on end.”

“Well, at least I’d have the opportunity to see your handsome face in parent-teacher conferences,” May pointed out. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m actually here to see your… Is roommate the right word? Tenant? I’ve heard conflicting reports.” 

“As long as no one used the word concubine, I guess it doesn’t really matter. Not that I would mind being that much of a cougar, but…” Her voice trailed off as she seemed to consider the possibilities of different relationship terms, but then she shook her head to clear her thoughts . “Barney’s out back. Just know that I don’t require him to work shirtless, but I don’t admonish it either. And anytime you want to join in, I swear I won’t invite more than five of my bridge club ladies to come over and watch.” 

“Always a pleasure to see you, May,” Thor said as he nodded before turning to walk down the porch steps and walked around to the back of the house. There was indeed a shirtless man working in the back. He was stringing lights in the rafters of what looked to be a newly constructed pergola. Not that Thor knew Clint Barton all that well since his children hadn’t reached the realm of fifth grade, but they would be soon. Too soon. “Are you Barney?” he called out.

“Depends on who’s asking,” the man answered, looking at Thor skeptically. He shimmied his way down the ladder and wiped his hands on his shorts before walking up to Thor and shaking his hand. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” Thor answered. “I know your brother and brother-in-law since I’m the PTA president for the elementary school.”

“If they told you I’m running some cake walk booth at a school fair—“

Thor chuckled. “No. That is not what they discussed with me.” 

“What exactly did they tell you about me?” Barney asked, his body language clearly uneasy with the conversation.

“That you saved them a hefty amount of money by repairing their HVAC unit for them. And that you’ve been helping out at Bruce and Natasha’s new house, which is under my construction company’s care.”

The man bristled at the last statement. “I was told—“

“I was not criticizing, and I didn’t come here to chastise you for working on one of my projects. I actually was hoping that you would continue, and that I could employ you,” Thor said.

Barney crossed his arms over his chest. “Employ me? Clint put you up to this? Little brothers can be nosy shits.”

“Umm, no,” Thor answered. “Well, yes, younger brothers can be an annoyance, but I inspected your work you did at Bruce and Natasha’s house. It’s well done. You seem to have a natural gift for that line of work.” 

Barney continued to stare him down for a moment before twisting a booted toe on a brick paver. “I have a record. I should be upfront about that before you run a background check.”

“I appreciate the honesty,” Thor said. “You wouldn’t be the first member of my crew with a past like that. Are you planning on repeating history?”

Barney snorted. “People like me never plan on doing stupid shit like that. We just feel like we don’t have any other choice. But no, I don’t have any more plans to get my ass sent back to prison.” 

“Will May feel be offended if I scoop you up to do my bidding instead of hers?” Thor asked.

“I’m sure she’ll be glad to get me out of her hair,” Barney answered.

“I’m not so sure.” It was Thor’s turn to stare and study him for a moment. “The job is yours if you want it. Meet me out at Bruce and Natasha’s place at seven. Unless you need a ride. I can arrange for one of my men to come pick you up.”

Barney shook his head. “I’ll make it work. So is this a trial gig? I work a job for you and then you call when you need me?”

“If that’s what you want, but from the look of things, I’m going to have full-time work for you. Would that be alright?”

Barney did a poor job of hiding the surprise on his face. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, that would be good.”

* * *

"That's gotta be an illegal slide tackle, right?" Sam asked, loud enough that his voice carried. "Because I know the catcher's not offsides this time around, but—"

Steve stopped high-fiving his players to throw a murderous glance over his shoulder, and Sam batted his eyelashes innocently. Next to him in the bleachers, Bucky hid his snicker by dipping his head. "You know he's gonna kill you, right? Back behind the concession stand, probably, and all because—"

"I ruined the sacred sport of baseball? I know." Sam sipped his water, but he waited until Steve twisted back to the game to flash Bucky a wicked grin. "Surprised you didn't cave. Tell him I'm a Braves fan, let him mock me for a while."

Bucky shrugged. "I planned on waiting till the playoffs—not, of course, that the Braves'll see them."

Sam squeaked like a deflating balloon, and Bucky laughed as he reached for his drink. At least, until somebody prodded him hard in the side. "I can't believe you dragged me to this nightmare," Clint whined, flopping down next to him. "It's about eight-hundred degrees in the shade. I'm gonna melt."

"I didn't think lumps of bitterness and testosterone melted," Carol commented as she, Jessica Drew, Jessica Cage, and Cage's friend Trish all crowded onto the bench in front of them with a mile-high pile of junk food. Bucky tried not to drool. "Besides, did you even need to come?"

Clint crossed his arms. "Maybe I'm being supportive," he defended.

"On the same day that Phil and Pepper went to that gallery thing?" Cage asked.

He scowled. "How do you even know about that?" Cage cocked an eyebrow, almost in challenge, and he shook his head. "Never mind," he decided. "Don't wanna know about the inner workings of your gossip phone tree."

"Oh, I think you need that on a t-shirt," Trish declared, and Sam almost choked on his water.

"The point is," Carol continued, glancing back at Clint, "you could've stayed home and napped in front of the golf channel instead of whining at us."

"Wait," Sam said, his hot dog halfway to his mouth, "you nap? Seriously?"

Drew shrugged. "Old people, am I right?"

Clint ignored their high-five to shoot Carol one of his legendary death glares. "What about you? Don't you have a boyfriend to annoy?"

All of a sudden, Drew's face split into a huge grin. " _Actually_ ," she intoned, but she shut up fast when Carol elbowed her in the gut. Hard, apparently, since she sputtered enough that Bucky almost felt it. They exchanged some loaded glances before Drew amended, "Rhodey's on a man-date with Tony. Something about cars and women in bikinis."

"And before you ask," Cage tacked on, her hand raised, "Luke and his buddy Danny took _our_ Dani— Well, somewhere. Long as they return her in one piece, I don't really care."

As she dug into her disgusting concession-stand nachos, Sam shot Bucky a funny look. "I'm not trying to pry," he said carefully, "but you've gotta tell me: are all the badass women in this district taken?"

Bucky snorted his root beer as every one of the women (and, weirdly, Clint) turned to look at Trish Walker. She blinked at them, a twizzler dangling from her mouth. "What?" she asked.

"Will," Cage said, and her friend immediately rolled her eyes. "No. No dodging me again. You either answer, or I _swear_ —"

Trish raised her hands. "There's nothing to answer, Jess, I promise. I'm not dating Will. I'll probably never date Will. He's more like a distraction." She paused, twirling the twizzler between her lips. "A really excellent distraction."

Jessica Drew sighed. "I miss distractions," she complained, reaching for her water.

"I can't decide if I wanna hear more or not," Clint commented, his feet propped up on the row in front of them. Drew grinned like that creepy cat from _Alice in Wonderland_ , and he jabbed a finger at her. "Not from you. I want to scrub that knowledge from my brain."

"What knowledge?" Sam asked.

Bucky smirked. "From what I've heard, it involves a bush and a bra, so . . . "

The group erupted into chaos right away, with Drew shrieking a little and Clint burying his face in his hands, and after a couple minutes, some of the parents in the front row actually spun around to glare at all of them. Bucky waved politely, and when his asshole friends finally calmed down, he discovered Steve watching them. Not in an annoyed way, either; no, Steve looked genuinely happy to see some familiar faces cheering on his little league kids.

Bucky winked at him, and Steve's ears turned a little pink as he returned to coaching.

An inning later, after Sam hollered about two-point conversions a couple times and Steve's team returned to the field, Clint glanced over at Carol. "You know," he said, "I still don't know why the rest of you are here."

Sucking nacho cheese from her fingers, Carol shrugged. "Same reason as you, buddy: Steve Rogers in baseball pants."

* * *

"You know it's butter, right?" Darcy asked, her hands on her hips. "Like, they literally dip a stick of butter in batter before dunking it—"

Alva released a high-pitched whine. "But it looks so _good_ ," she said, throwing herself into Darcy and almost knocking both of them into a garbage can. "And since you said we could have anything we wanted after the funner cake—"

Darcy raised a finger. "Funnel," she corrected. "And, by the way, you're all tiny heathens for turning your noses up at that. Because as far as I'm concerned, a fresh funnel cake is the ambrosia of the gods."

The girl squinted a little at the description (probably figuring out what _ambrosia_ meant), but finally, she huffed out a hard breath. "You said we could have any snack," she insisted, "and I want the butter stick."

"Yeah, well, you lost your snack privileges after you puked all over the Tilt-a-Whirl." Alva gasped, clearly about to argue, and Darcy crossed her arms. "Do you want to eat your weight in pizza tonight?" she asked.

Alva rolled her lips together. "Yes."

"And top it off with ill-advised ice cream that we're definitely not telling your parents about?" The kid toed the dirt, not really glancing up, and Darcy arched an eyebrow. "Well?"

"Yes!" Alva groaned, throwing up her hands. "I want to eat everything, but I just don't think it's fair—"

"Like my grandpa says, a fair's a place where you award a big pig a prize." Except the second Darcy finished her sentence, a guy in a cowboy hat paraded a huge pig right past them. Alva peered up at her, all wide eyes and knowing smirk, and Darcy sighed. "How about we don't talk about the weird idiosyncrasies of the universe and go win a stuffed penguin?"

"I don't think you're supposed to say words with idiot," Alva informed her, and Darcy laughed as she led her over to the carnival games.

As a kid, Darcy'd loved everything about the county fair: the food, the rides, the animals, the rigged games she never won. But even though it cost a lot more money as an adult than a pipsqueak, Darcy still reveled in the whole experience, from the giant turkey legs to the horse poop near the line of Port-a-Potties. Nothing like a fair to fill a girl with joy—or, more importantly, to keep the Odinchildren out of their parents' hair for an entire Saturday.

Darcy planned on returning them filthy, exhausted, and full of junk food. Just like god intended.

After they spent a frankly disgusting amount of money to win a tiny stuffed alligator, Alva sighed and flopped against Darcy's hip. "Can we go back on the tilting ride after the boys are done with the roller coasters?" she asked.

Darcy snorted. "And risk you heaving all over my shoes a second time? No way." The girl huffed, and Darcy narrowed her eyes. "And no asking your uncle, either. He's only the ride grandmaster because my bra's one bad bounce away from a wardrobe malfunction, but even _he_ recognizes—"

"Well, aren't you a sight for bored eyes?" someone suddenly asked, and Darcy jerked as a hand landed on her upper arm. When she whirled around hard enough to break the grip, the guy behind her raised his hands. "Sorry for sneaking up on you, sweetheart," he said, his voice a little slurred for three in the afternoon. "I just saw you standing there, looking lonely, and I thought I'd come introduce myself."

Alva immediately grabbed Darcy's arm, tugging her close. "She's not alone," she defended. "She's with me."

"And you're a pretty little thing, too," the guy replied, his grin dangerously close to a leer. Alva bristled, but while Darcy angled herself in front of the girl, the stranger propped an arm up on the edge of the stall. "I'm Jared. Helped judge a couple of the livestock competitions this morning. What's your name?"

His eyes tracked right down to Darcy's cleavage, and she barely resisted the urge to tug up her shirt as she nudged Alva toward the main footpath. "Leaving," she told him, "but thanks for—"

"Aw, you don't need to leave so fast." He grabbed her arm, harder than the first time, and the spark of dread in her stomach paired nicely with her fear and anger. But instead of punching him in the face (in front of a future first grader, no less), she just squared her shoulders and kept prodding Alva. "Why don't we talk for a while? Or if you don't like talking, we could—"

"I don't believe she's interested in talking to you," another voice broke in, and the shove that trailed behind it sent Jared stumbling backward. Darcy scrambled away from him, Alva in tow, as Loki surged into view. Even with his sunburnt nose and ugly Swedish sandals, he looked ready to rip Jared limb-from-limb. 

Worse, Henry tried to rush in behind his uncle, leaving Darcy to grab him by his t-shirt and tug him back.

The boy glared at her. "But—"

"Don't you dare argue with me right now," she warned, and he snapped his mouth shut.

The two guys postured for a couple seconds, their shoulders squared and nostrils flaring, before Jared tossed a glance over at Darcy. He sized her up again, but the second he spotted the three kids gathered around her, he snorted. "Not worth the time," he decided, stomping away.

"You're a hero!" Alva declared, throwing herself at her uncle while Henry menaced Jared from behind. George, obviously a little dazed, just glued himself to Darcy's side, and Darcy stroked his hair. "Did you see him, Darcy? He would've punched the bad guy if he hadn't gone away!"

"And I would've helped," Henry insisted, but he sounded more sulky than heroic.

Loki hiked Alva up on his hip before patting his nephew on the shoulder. "Actually, we would have discussed the situation with our words, but I appreciate the enthusiasm. Now, how would you feel about going bowling before dinner? With soda and air conditioning, of course."

"And bumpers?" George asked.

"Always bumpers," his uncle confirmed, leaving Henry to grumble as they headed for the parking lot.

Three-quarters of the way there, after the kids'd run ahead to bicker about bowling ball colors, Loki tossed Darcy a sideways glance. "You all right?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Thanks to you, yeah." He rolled his eyes, and she punched his shoulder. "I'm serious. You helped me get Alva out of there without anybody's head getting busted. You might actually be my hero."

Loki smiled. "Don't let Alva hear that. She's still terrible at sharing."

* * *

Thor leaned back in his lawn chair and smiled. The air was filled with the sounds of chirping insects and the crackling of the bonfire. Jane nuzzled deeper into his lap. The July evening was still warm and humid, but he didn’t mind the extra heat of his wife’s body or the fire in the yard. Loki and Darcy had been kind enough to spend the day with the children, filling them full of sugar and running them ragged. All three were now completely passed out in their beds. While they’d had their adventures, it had freed Thor and Jane up to run errands without six little hands and feet trying to explore everything around them. They had forgotten how quick and easy trips to the grocery store could be. It had been a pleasant and relaxing day for all, something Thor knew they all needed since next week they were all going on their weekly summer patronage to his parents’ home. 

There would undoubtedly be the usually frustrations: too many of them suck under a small roof, unkind family history resurfacing, and the struggle both he and Jane suffered of fully separating themselves from their work to focus fully on a break. Then, there would be the things that they all knew were going on but no one would talk about, like Darcy and Loki ending their relationship.

Thor sighed and pushed those things out of his mind and returned his focus to the smell of the flowers in Alva’s fairy garden and Jane’s body wash.

“Do we really have to go next week?” Jane asked, another summer tradition that had to be carried on. 

“Would you rather deal with my mother nagging us because we chose not to pay homage?”

“I’d take that risk,” Jane answered.

“You are the only one willing to do so,” Thor responded.

“I bet I could get Loki on my side.”

Thor smiled. “One of the few times you two would agree on something.”

“Fine,” Jane sighed. “Will you please do the laundry this week before we go? I promise I’ll do all the packing—“

Thor cut her off with a gentle kiss to her forehead. “We are not discussing these things right now.”

“Then what are we talking about?” Jane asked.

“Right now? While things are quiet and we are alone? Anything but my parents.”

“Deal,” Jane responded as she once again burrowed into his lap. 

The moment brought him back to when they were young and starting their relationship. The house Thor and several of his friends rented had a fire pit in the backyard, and he and Jane would spend hours outside in the evenings no matter the month of the year. They’d talk all night or sit in silence enjoying each other’s company. The smell of smoke always brought a sense of peace over Thor because of that.

“We should get a dog,” Thor mused aloud. 

Jane snorted into his shirt. “You’re insane.”

“It can be an older dog, not a pup. One that’s already fully trained, lower energy, and has a history of not being aggressive or making messes.”

“So it will die sooner? You want to deal with that and the kids?” Jane challenged.

Thor hummed a note that rumbled in his chest. “Perhaps not. But we could look for a breed that is good with children but low energy.”

“Alva will try and turn it into a horse, and if it’s large enough, she'll try and ride it. The boys will do who knows what, but definitely fight over it.”

“It would be a lesson in responsibility,” Thor pointed out.

“Is this because you were never allowed to have one as a child?” Jane asked.

“Possibly. Father is allergic, so we had to even shower after visiting friends who had dogs.”

Jane looked up at him, her expression morphing into what he lovingly called her thinking face. “Is he still that allergic?”

Thor gave her a displeased look. “You would only consider taking in an animal in order to ward off my father?”

“Like the thought hasn’t ever crossed your mind.”

* * *

Natasha peered over the edge of her sunglasses. "So, what you're saying is that you think—"

Tony cut her off by raising a hand. "In this particular case, I don't _think_ anything. In fact, I'm actually offended that you'd impugn my genius like that, but since I'm still terrified of you and your death-glare, I'll let it slide." Natasha rolled her eyes, and in the pool, Clint snickered. "But to answer your question," Tony continued, "I specially designed this raft with your precious cargo in mind."

Jessica Cage snorted into her enormous fruity drink. "Based off something he found online," she pointed out.

"Yes, except my design is ten times better _and_ lacks the thoroughly offensive name." Cage rolled her eyes, and Tony sighed. "Belly Flopz," he said. "The terrible name is 'Belly Flopz.'"

This time, Cage actually choked on her drink, and even Natasha fought against her grin. "Seriously?" Clint asked.

"Cross my heart and hope to drown after falling off one of their hideous rafts." He snickered, but Tony just glanced over at Natasha. "Try it," he said, sounding a little desperate. "If you hate it, that's fine, but knowing that you like an even tan—"

"I don't want to know how you found that out," Natasha broke in. Still, her attention stayed on the weird Frankenstein raft Tony'd created for her, one with padding in all the right places and a hole for her belly. She rolled her lips together. "Is this an olive branch?" she asked.

Tony shrugged. "Probably more like a couple leaves."

Her mouth tipped into a tiny smile. "Fair enough."

Somebody stationed over by the fireworks whistled for Tony, and he nudged Natasha in the arm before jogging off to manage some other aspect of Steve's birthday party. Well, technically, Steve _and_ America's birthday party, since the whole Stark house kind of resembled Betsy Ross's scrap room. Red, white, and blue bunting hung from the fence, perfectly matched to the paper plates and plastic cups; a tiny Statue of Liberty perched on top of Steve's cake, surrounded by more fondant stars than Clint'd ever be able to count. 

"I'm surprised there's not sparklers standing in for candles," Clint commented from his inner tube.

"It's still early," Cage pointed out, and she flipped him off when he splashed her.

"I will dunk you if I get caught in the crossfire," Natasha warned, her head pillowed on her arms. "And before you ask: yes, I can still dunk you, and no, you will not be able to catch me."

He snorted into his beer but never really looked away. "You wanna tell me what's up with you and Stark?" he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. "You want to tell me why you keep avoiding my texts about painting?"

He groaned. "I hate painting, Nat. Only thing worse than painting's—"

"Listening to Fury talk about documentaries after his second glass of pinot grigio, I know. You told me." She paddled over just enough to touch his knee. "Either you help with this," she said, "or you help with diapers. Your call."

She shoved his leg hard enough that he spun away, and he scowled. "That’s a fucking party foul, and you know it!" he accused, but Natasha just laughed.

About ten minutes later, hunger won out over lazy pool lounging, and Clint passed his tube to Bucky as he climbed out of the water. "She'll dunk you," he warned while Natasha snorted at him. "She looks slow, but she's wily."

"I can take her," Bucky promised, and he clapped Clint on the shoulder before hopping into the pool.

"Don't touch me while you're wet," Phil warned as Clint joined him near the snack table, actually angling his body away when Clint tried to sidle up next to him. "I'm not changing again."

"Again?" Bruce wondered.

"Don't ask him that!" Carol hissed, smacking the kindergarten teacher on the shoulder. "Because if there's one thing I don't want to hear about today, it's the disgusting sex lives of—"

"How many of those have you had?" Phil asked, gesturing to her canned margarita.

"Enough," she retorted, "and don't change the subject. Because my point here is that questions like _that_ —" She pointed at Bruce. "—always end in shower blowjobs."

"Wait, who's offering shower blowjobs?" Darcy asked, popping into the conversation. A few feet away, Peter flared an impressive shade of red. "Because Gwen's coming back in a couple days, and Peter needs ideas—"

"Peter doesn't need ideas!" Peter squeaked. He looked about ready to cover his face with his hands. "Why is everyone obsessed with my relationship?"

"Hey, I'm not obsessed with anything," Darcy promised, "but if Carol can help you spice up your life—"

Peter groaned, his head tipping up to the sky, and Clint waited for the vultures to circle him before sliding an arm around Phil's waist. And, yeah, he pressed his wet hip against his husband, but Phil just rolled his eyes at that part. "You gonna tell them about the garbage disposal backing up on you?" 

Phil smirked. "We'll let them figure it out," he replied, and stole a star-shaped cheese cube from Clint's plate.


	5. Bedroom

"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be rounding third base on an in-the-park home run or something?"

"That's not even a thing," Peter grumbled, but Wade just propped his shoulder against the wall. Wade, who wore tiny pajama shorts and a _don't worry, be yoncé_ tank top to bed, looking more like a frat boy on vacation than a responsible middle school teacher. Except when he raised an eyebrow, Peter blushed. "Shut up."

"Did I say something?" Wade wondered while Peter filled his glass of water a second time. "What's that, bathroom wall? I didn't say anything? I just came in here to brush my teeth before finishing _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ and ran into my roommate, who should totally be making sweet monkey love to his girlfriend right now?" Wade pressed his ear to the wall, squinting. "No, I don't think they're ready for that. They're more in the intermediate course. Now, if you'd suggested reverse—"

"Wade!" Peter squeaked, almost dropping the glass. Wade blinked at him, all innocent confusion, and Peter scrubbed a hand over his face. "Look, I just— I needed a break, okay? Just a ten second break. Catch my breath."

Wade grimaced. "You're not saying that you . . . " 

He gestured vaguely in Peter's direction, and Peter raised an eyebrow. "That I what?"

"False started." He frowned, mostly in confusion, and Wade gestured again. "Jumped the gun? Handed off the baton early? Look, I'm running out of track and field metaphors real fast, and since you turn super weird when I talk about your junk in explicit terms—"

"Why are we talking about Peter's junk?" Gwen wondered, walking into the hallway. Gwen, who looked unbelievably perfect in one of Peter's t-shirts and not much else, her hair loose around her shoulders. She'd looked like a scientist when he'd picked her up for dinner, her hair back in a ponytail and her clothes all precise; now, beautifully rumpled, she warmed Peter from the inside out.

At least, until Wade shrugged. "Found him hiding in the bathroom instead of welcoming you home," he said, glancing back at her. "And before you ask, that's absolutely a euphemism, because the way I see it—"

"Okay, new rule: the guy who won't talk to the hot model can't criticize my love life." Gwen ducked her head, snickering at Wade's wounded look, but Peter just jabbed a finger at him. "Now, we're going back to my room, and you're going back to Nazis. Okay?"

"Nazis?" Gwen asked.

"I'm only in it for Harrison Ford, and you know it," Wade complained, but Peter'd already stepped out of the bathroom, grabbed Gwen by the arm, and hauled her away.

"I like Wade," Gwen said a minute later, after Peter'd thrown himself on his bed and considered death by bunched-up top sheet. "He's . . . I don't know. Completely Wade."

"That's not a compliment," he grumbled, and she smiled. She laid down next to him, both of them the wrong way on the bed, and he shifted to look at the ceiling. "I'm sorry."

She frowned. "Why?"

"Because I planned this whole romantic reunion, and tonight just—" He waved a hand to summarize the disaster, but Gwen caught his wrist. She tangled their fingers together, and he sighed. "The restaurant screwed up our reservation, our coffee shop had a water main break and had to close, the park was filled with mosquitos—"

"I'd never seen so many mosquitos," Gwen agreed. "Might be worth studying, when the semester starts."

"Wrong time to talk science to me," Peter warned, but she just grinned. He studied her for a minute, her blonde hair glowing a little in the dim light. "I wanted everything to be perfect, and instead, everything went wrong. And when we're finally here, alone, I'm just—"

"Too nervous for words?" she guessed when he hesitated, and he nodded. "You know I'm not going anywhere, right?" she asked, looking at him. "Even if my program drags me to Switzerland or Norway or wherever, I'm still coming back. Like a rash."

Peter wrinkled his nose. "That's the best you can do?"

She shrugged. "Short notice and a nervous boyfriend? I work with what I've got." He snorted a little at that, and she scooted closer. "I don't need perfect date nights and whatever you googled on your phone when you thought I wasn't looking."

He felt the color drain out of his face. "Look, Darcy's the one who bookmarked that site for me, I just—"

"Peter," she said, smiling, and he shut his stupid mouth. "I didn't come home for romance and the internet sutra, okay? I came home for you."

The next morning, as Peter dug through the fridge in search of orange juice (or anything besides slowly molding leftovers), Wade walked up and leaned his elbows on the open door. "Hi," he said.

"I think this chimichanga predates the invention of the wheel," Peter muttered, shoving the foil-wrapped blob back into the crisper drawer. "How many times a week do you order Mexican?"

"A gentleman never eats and tells." He rolled his eyes, and Wade waved him off. "More important issue: you know how I watched Harrison Ford be all rugged and delicious last night?"

"You keep talking like that," Peter warned, "and you'll ruin Indiana Jones for me."

"We both know _Kingdom of the Crystal Skull_ already took care of that," Wade countered. "Anyway, after I finished the movie, I polished off some chips and salsa in front of an infomercial. Normal weekend stuff."

Peter sat back on his haunches. "Do you have a point?" 

Something truly mischievous sparked to life in Wade's face. "Funny you should mention that," he said, "because when I wandered down the hallway to go to bed, you know what I heard?"

Immediately, Peter's face flared bright red. "Oh god."

Grinning, Wade reached down and ruffled his hair. "Good job putting your _point_ to Gwen, if you know what I mean," he said, and laughed when Peter slapped his arm.

* * *

“What are you doing, exactly?” Bucky asked.

Natasha—laying on the empty master bedroom floor—responded, “I went to test the overhead fan and then I got stuck.”

Bucky tried to hide his snicker but judging from the glare Nat gave him, he wasn’t wholly successful. But she was almost eight months pregnant and possibly stuck lying down on the reengineered hardwood floor.

Bucky blamed Steve for knowing what that was.

“Want help up?” he asked.

“I want to sleep for more than three hours and not constantly feel like a sweaty pig who always has to pee.”

“Okay,” Bucky said slowly, “I can’t do anything about any of that.”

“What time is it?” Natasha asked.

“Little after four.”

“How long does it take for your husband to paint a few trees? He’s been in there for six hours.”

Bucky smiled. “You don’t want me to get started on this tirade.”

“How many projects does he have going on in the garage?” Natasha asked.

“I refuse to let myself wonder about that or talk to him about it. There’s a lot less passive aggressiveness in our marriage.” 

Natasha snorted and ran a hand in circles over her stomach. As she did, Bucky could see a small bump poke out and move a couple inches towards her hip before disappearing again. His fingers itched to stretch out and try to feel the baby move but the look in Natasha’s face told him this was a happy private moment. “You name that thing yet?” he asked.

Natasha nodded. “But we’re not telling anybody what the name is until he’s here. Speaking of, know anyone crazy enough to cover a maternity leave for an elementary gym teacher?”

“I thought you had someone lined up. That Morse dude?”

“Bobbi is not a dude,” Natasha corrected. “And she fell down the stairs last night and will be in a full leg cast for three months. I’m well aware that I can be mean sometimes, but I’m not going to force that level of torture on her and the kids,” Natasha said.

Bucky sighed. “That sucks. I’ll ask around and let you know what I can find out. You talk to Fury yet?”

She shook her head. “This is his one week of vacation all year. Even if I did call him, he wouldn’t answer. And I don’t blame him at all for that.”

They lay on the floor in silence for a minute before Bucky remembered what he’d come to ask her about in the first place. “You guys have any food preferences? Bruce allergic to anything?”

“Why?” Natasha questioned.

“We’re not trying to poison you, calm down. I’m putting together a group of people to deliver meals to you guys once the kid gets here.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she immediately replied.

“We know, but we’re going to anyway. It’s just once or twice a week. But, according to my sister, it’ll make all the difference in the world. And you don’t have to have Ma coming over to deliver the meals all the time like she had to.” Natasha was quiet for too long and Bucky looked over to see her fighting tears. “Shit, I didn’t mean to make you cry, Nat.”

“It’s not you; it’s the damn hormones. It happens to Bruce at least twice a week now. I can’t control it and it sucks,” she said.

“Did I insult the hormones?” Bucky asked.

“No, you were nice to them, which is even worse.”

He rolled his lips to hide his smile, but apparently didn’t do it quick enough since she still threw an elbow down on the middle of his chest. When he caught his breath, he apologized again. Under normal conditions, he would have fought back, but he didn’t feel like embarrassing himself by getting his ass kicked by a woman stuck on the floor in her third trimester.

“You ready to come see?”

Both he and Natasha looked up to see Steve standing over them. His hands were on his hips, and there were speckles of black and white paint on his fingertips. It just furthered Bucky’s belief that his husband looked amazing from every angle. 

Once the two of them helped Natasha up, she peeked out the window. “James, go calmly get Bruce from the backyard.”

“Calmly?” Bucky questioned.

“Anytime I call for him with the slightest amount of volume in my voice, he assumes the baby is crowning and freaks out. Make calm, slow movements.”

A few minutes later, all four of them were standing outside the nursery door. The only buzzing energy around them came from excitement at seeing Steve’s work, except for Steve himself. Bucky could almost swim in the nerves radiating off of his husband. He reached out and put at a hand on Steve’s lower back to calm him down and gave him a reassuring smile. Steve quickly nodded his thanks before swinging open the door.

Before he’d gotten to work, the walls were already a medium gray. Steve had added a breathtaking scene of a forest of birch trees, a few fluffy clouds, and a handful of small forest creatures. He’d even taken the time to move the furniture back in place against the walls for the full effect. Bucky watched Natasha’s mouth tighten again as she tried to reign in her hormone-amplified emotions, and he hooked a finger into the belt loop of Steve’s jeans. He tugged gently and nodded his head toward the door.

“Did I do something wrong?” Steve whispered when they were out in the hall.

“Nah, babe,” Bucky replied before kissing him. “You’re great.”

* * *

"How the fuck do they do this?" Jasper wondered, unearthing a couple more dirty socks from under the dresser. "They're only here eight weeks out of the year. Hell, they barely stopped by long enough for dinner before you shipped them off to summer camp. This place should be pristine."

Maria stopped stripping the bed to glance over. "Do you remember being thirteen?"

He snorted. "As much as I try to avoid it, yeah."

"And?"

When he cocked an eyebrow at her, she responded by gesturing at all the dirty clothes, half-eaten snacks, and abandoned Lego projects. He rolled his eyes. "Fine, okay, point taken," he grumbled, and she grinned.

Back when she'd suggested it, Jasper'd enthusiastically signed on Mission: Surprise the Twins with a New Bedroom. In his brain, the plan'd included all of his favorite things: alone time with his super-competent girlfriend, quality time at a home-improvement store, furniture assembly. (Hey, he liked working his way through IKEA instructions. They reminded him of a logic puzzle.) But Maria'd hatched the plan in April, months before everything sort of tilted on its axis. 

Jasper shook his head. No obsessing over _that_ conversation, even if his whole relationship still felt like a desk with a wobbly leg. Instead, he asked, "You still waffling about a paint color? Because I'm pretty sure my drill's on its last legs, and—"

"You want to run to Home Depot again," Maria finished, her voice light. He shrugged, mostly to downplay his smile, and she rolled her eyes. "You're worse than a sitcom husband, you know that? As long as somebody keeps you in food, beer—"

Jasper raised a hand. "Craft beer."

"—and home improvement projects, you're happy." She paused, smirking. "Even if you're terrible with a TV bracket."

"I fixed it!" he protested, but Maria just laughed. He waved a hand at her, trying hard to hide the way her laugh ran through him like a lightning bolt. "See if I help you the next time your toilet leaks."

"And like I said before you almost flooded my bathroom," she replied, "I'm not too proud to call a plumber." He scoffed again, more to reclaim a little pride than anything else, and turned back to the dresser. Except the second he bent to open one of the drawers, he heard Maria add, "I'm sorry."

She kept it quiet, almost like a whisper, and he frowned as he glanced back at her. "I didn't—" 

"I know how hard you're trying," she interrupted, staring at the bedsheets in her hands. "I hear it when we talk, and worse, I feel it when we're together. And I hate disappointing you, I do, but . . . "

She shook her head as she trailed off, her voice even more distant, and Jasper shrugged. "You don't want to marry me," he said, hoping that he sounded casual instead of upset. "That's not a requirement. I'd be a pretty shitty boyfriend if I didn't accept—"

"I don't want to marry _anyone_." He blinked at the absolute certainty in her voice, the confirmation to something Jasper'd suspected for the last couple months but never quite managed to ask about. Ditching the dirty sheets, Maria walked over, and when she ran her hands down his sides, he almost melted. "Last time around, I got married because everybody expected me to. You're young, you're in love, and people just—" She flapped a hand, and he almost laughed at the open disdain in her expression. "I've tried it, and Jasper, I hated it. And I love you too much to force you through that wringer. Well, with me."

He raised his eyebrows. "You think there's a backup plan to all this? Some second girlfriend waiting in the wings for when you reject my tastefully appointed princess-cut ring with the tension setting?" She snorted, almost smiling, and he settled his hands on her hips. "I didn't propose to you because I'm the kind of guy who needs to put a ring on it. I proposed because I want to be with you. And if part of that means we live in different houses and file separate tax returns for the next fifty years, I'm okay with that. The only part I'm really set on is you."

Her smile turned soft, one of those rare smiles she saved pretty much just for him, and when he dragged her in for a kiss, she pressed their bodies together like their lives depended on it. They kissed like teenagers for a little while, tangled up and clutching at each other's clothes, but she pulled away the second he tried backing her toward the bunkbeds. 

"I draw the line at sex in my kid's bed," she warned, and Jasper laughed. At least, until she paused and asked, "You're really good with all this?"

He wound their fingers together. "Allow me to demonstrate," he said, and drew her out of the room.

* * *

 _selfie with my younger self #latebloomer_ , Darcy typed. She swiped between filters a couple times, selected a flower crown (for both her head and her fifth grade school picture in the background), and posted the story to Snapchat.

"Another masterpiece," she said, flopping back on the bed. "If the guys were here, they'd recommend a self-five. Unless that's a euphemism, in which case, I don't want to think about their history of 'fiving' themselves."

The glow-in-the-dark plastic stars on the ceiling said nothing, and she sighed.

Apparently, one of the many downsides to moving out of your childhood home while totally raging at your overbearing nightmare of a mother was the enormous pile of shit you left behind. And not just, like, your collection of Precious Moments figurines or your three shelves of musty _Babysitter's Club_ books, either; no, when you stormed out like Darcy, armed with nothing more than some overstuffed duffel bags and your righteous indignation, you forgot shoes. And summer clothes. And an entire shoebox of mismatched socks.

She poked at the box (now balancing dangerously on the end of the bedside table) and sighed. Behind it, the three Odinkids grinned at her from a photograph, their hair wet and mussed from her parents' pool. 

"If you guys weren't hanging out with the grandparents, I'd totally sneak you over for a swim," she told the picture. Not that it responded, of course. She'd just started going a little stir-crazy, stuck alone in her old bedroom and rifling through a lifetime of junk.

But talking to the picture inspired her to go snap a photograph of the pool, live and in person, and text it to Jane and Thor. She almost added Loki to the group—for maximum child-torment, of course—but she decided at the last second to stick to the usual suspects. "Less room for weird ex-boyfriend miscommunications," she muttered, mostly to fill the creepy silence of her parents' empty kitchen.

At least, until the garage door rattled to life.

The sudden sound almost scared Darcy out of her skin, but that fright totally paled in comparison to the realization that garage doors meant _people_. Specifically, parent-shaped people who didn't expect their adult daughter to be hanging out at their house wearing nothing but cutoffs and a tank-top. Even though Darcy talked to her mom every couple weeks—strained, uncomfortable conversations that left her feeling itchy—she'd avoided seeing the woman since she'd moved out in January.

You know, more than six months ago.

Swearing, she shoved her phone in her pocket and literally ran up the stairs to her bedroom. By the time she heard her mom's footsteps on the stairs, she'd filled a whole suitcase. Just a couple more books, and she'd—

Even though her mom's knock sounded tentative, she still held her breath.

Her mom, on the other hand, just asked, "Darcy?"

Darcy sighed. "Yeah, Mom, I—" she started, but she stopped when she actually caught sight of the woman in the doorway. Her mom looked about the same, all things considered, but something in her face seemed different. Older, maybe, or tired, like the last six months of sharp conversations had worn her down to the bone. Darcy immediately felt guilty, but lucky for her, anger over feeling that guilt followed right behind.

Her mom rolled her lips together, clearly waiting, and Darcy dragged fingers through her hair. "I left a lot of stuff here," she explained, gesturing to the suitcases. "I figured you wouldn't mind me packing some of it up. I mean, you always talked about turning this place into an exercise room, and now—"

"You look good," her mom interrupted, and the sincerity in her voice kind of ate the rest of Darcy's sentence. She snapped her mouth shut, unsure how to respond, but her mom just smiled softly. "I kept worrying you wouldn't get enough to eat, living with those boys, but you're obviously taking care of yourself. You're even tan."

Darcy snorted. "I dragged the kids to the county fair."

"Kids?" 

"Jane and Thor's kids. We still, you know, hang out." Her mom nodded, and when the awkward silence threatened to elbow between them again, Darcy shook her head. "Look, I know I left in a hurry. And I don't regret it or anything, but I kind of think . . . " Her mom raised her eyes, her face inching dangerously toward hopeful, and Darcy swallowed. "Maybe we can eat dinner or something? You know, after I finish cleaning up in here. Since I sort of trashed the place looking for some of my stuff." 

She gestured to the nearest pile, a reminder of the thousand other times she'd pointed out the junk-heaps in her bedroom, and this time, her mom huffed a laugh. "At the rate you're going, dinner'll be at midnight," she said, leaving Darcy to roll her eyes. "But maybe I can help?"

And instead of grabbing her suitcases and heading for the hills, Darcy smiled. "That'd be pretty great," she admitted, and her mom smiled back.

* * *

Loki made sure that the sheet and blanket covering Alva were snuggly tucked under her little body—twice—before kissing her on the forehead. “Sleep well, little one. I’ll do my best to be very quiet when I sneak back in to go to bed myself.”

“Why can’t I stay up with the big people? I promise I won’t tell Henry and George that I did it,” she whined.

“We both know you are not the greatest at keeping secrets, but even if you were allowed, you wouldn’t have much fun anyway. We just talk about boring things—the weather, trying to remember where old friends moved away too, what doctor’s appointment your incredibly old grandfather has to go to next. You’d fall asleep anyway. Might as well do it in here.”

“Will you at least tell me a story?” Alva asked.

Loki tried his best to cover up a sigh and instead pushed a smile on to his face. The lady Sif was coming over tonight since Thor’s best friend and work associate, Heimdall, had also taken the week off of work and was visiting family in town. The five of them—Thor, Jane, himself, and the two siblings—were supposed to go out to a bar to spend a night avoiding the parents in town. And Loki really needed a drink.

“Alright,” he said. “There once was a princess named Alva.”

“I’m a pirate princess,” she corrected. “And I don’t want a story about me. Tell me a story about you.”

“My life is not that exciting,” Loki replied. “The only fun times I have are when I’m with my niece and nephews, and since you’re already present for those events, there’s no point in turning them into a story.”

“Do you have a new princess to tell me about?” Alva asked. “I know you and Miss Darcy aren’t boyfriend and girlfriend anymore. Do you have a new girlfriend?”

“You’re worse than your grandmother, you know that, right?” Loki responded, causing the girl to giggle. “No, I am afraid the only princess in my life is my studies.”

Alva scrunched up her face. “How can you date studies?”

Loki smiled. “You get a lot of paper cuts on your lips.” When the joke clearly sailed over Alva’s head, he asked, “What story will appease you so you will fall asleep and I can go see my friends with your parents?”

She attempted to cross her arms over her chest out of habit, but Loki had secured her so tightly in her air mattress bed that she couldn’t move all that much. “Tell me about another princess—your dream princess. What does she look like?”

Loki shrugged. “I’d like to say I’m not vain enough to judge a person solely on exterior—“

“I don’t know what those words mean,” Alva interrupted. “I’m only going to be in the first grade.” 

“Fair point,” Loki chuckled. “I don’t look for certain things like hair color. I guess not blonde.”

“What’s blonde?” Alva asked.

“I believe your mother refers to it as ‘yellow hair’ because she doesn’t want to impart social biases on your young mind.”

“Why no yellow hair?” Alva questioned. “It can be pretty sometimes. Like with Daddy; he has very pretty hair.”

“An old princess of mine had hair that color. I’d rather not repeat that mistake.”

“What else?” Alva pushed.

“I don’t know really,” Loki confessed. “Someone who is smart and can make me laugh. Someone who can carry on a good conversation.”

“Without yellow hair, right?” Alva asked. “I'll look for her when Grandma takes me shopping and to go see horses tomorrow.” 

“May you have better luck than I’ve had,” he wished before leaning down to kiss her forehead. “Now go to sleep before your mother comes in here and yells at both of us.”

Going out for drinks with Thor’s friends wasn’t something Loki necessarily found appealing, but it did offer him the opportunity to get out of his parents’ home for a few hours and to imbibe. Both of which he needed badly. Of course, he would’ve preferred an establishment with a greater focus on craft beers (or any focus whatsoever) but would settle for pisswater-esque domestics. It was either that or whatever girly cocktail Jane had decided on or hard liquor like Thor and Heimdall drank. There were only one or two times Thor let him tag along to go party with his friends in high school, and the thought of his older brother, Heimdall, and liquor still made him feel queasy after all these years. 

“Nothing for you?” he asked Sif, sitting across the table from him.

“Apparently, someone will have to remain sober to drive you all home. I think the plan was originally Jane, but since she keeps ordering drinks…”

“If you were staying with my parents for a week, you’d do the same,” Loki commented. 

The two of them struck up an easy conversation, which was a little odd considering Loki hadn’t seen the woman in at least five years, and his mind still gave her the title of “Thor’s ex-girlfriend.” But, unsurprisingly, she’d grown up. He listened to her tell her adventures of working overseas, both as a member of the military and then as private security. She didn’t say much about the work itself, but rather stuck to discussing different places and their cultures, something that always fascinated Loki.

On the drive home, Sif gave him a smile as she wished him good night. It caused a warmness in his stomach that had been missing since he and Darcy parted ways. As he lay in bed, he wondered if Alva would need to bother looking for a princess the next morning.

* * *

Carol stepped back from the calendar in her kitchen, frowning. "Twenty-three days," she murmured. "And while we're at it: what kind of idiot counts days on the calendar?"

Aside from the humming fridge, nobody answered.

She snorted as she turned away from the wall, trying hard not to stomp around like a sulking child. Ever since the start of the summer, James's warning loomed over her like a storm cloud about to dump a downpour on her head. Actually, no, Carol liked storms; instead, the conversation ticked between them, a bomb waiting to explode.

"You know Clint's blowing up your phone, right?" James called from the bedroom as she stopped to refill Chewie's water dish. "Because the man cannot stop texting you."

"There's too much testosterone in his life when I'm not around!" Carol shouted back, and his laughter echoed down the hall. "And did you just finally admit that you snoop on my phone when I'm not looking?"

"Hey, if another man's texting you ten times in five minutes, I need to scope out the competition," he defended.

Carol laughed and shook her head, the warmth of the joke trailing her as she finished up in the kitchen and flicked off the light. James's running shoes sat by the front door, a reminder that he waited for her in the bedroom, and she wrinkled her nose at the discarded sock in the hallway. 

"This place used to be clean," she complained, flinging the sock at his head as she walked into the bedroom. "You're like a vampire. I invite you in, and you ruin everything."

James snorted. "Never should've introduced you to _True Blood_ ," he said, and she ignored him to wander into the bathroom. "And I didn't leave the sock there. Chewie stole it. Again."

Carol rolled her eyes at the mirror. "My cat is a saint."

"Your cat is furry Satan, and I know at least three people who agree with me." She scowled as she shoved her toothbrush in her mouth, but James kept talking. "You gonna check in on Clint, or no? Because if you're not, I'm either silencing your phone or throwing it out the window."

"You know, for a guy who fields social work calls in the middle of the night—" Carol threatened, but she stopped the second she stepped out of the bathroom. As usual, James sat on his side of her bed, dressed his normal pajamas: a threadbare college t-shirt and boxers. A stack of social work reports sat in his lap, and as she watched, Chewie gnawed on his highlighter cap. Better still, he wore his reading glasses—his secret shame, according to his grumbling every time they ate somewhere with a fine-print menu.

Despite the toothbrush, her mouth dried out. 

James, though, just raised his eyebrows. "What?" he asked. "You okay?"

"I," she said, but the non-answer caught in the back of her throat. Because in that moment, standing in the doorway to the bathroom, she discovered an even bigger bomb:

The thought of losing him.

James frowned, his rare worry lines creasing. "Carol, you look like you're going to—"

"I want this."

The words tumbled out clumsily, hampered by her stupid toothbrush and mouth full of foam, and she ducked back into the bathroom just long enough to spit. When she walked back out, James kept staring at her, the worry evident on his expression. 

Carol just drew in a breath.

"I don't know how you snuck up on me," she said, "but you did. And now, I look at you, sitting there with your reports and your nerd glasses, and I—" He rolled his eyes as she gestured at him, but she ignored him to evict Chewie from her spot and climb onto the bed. She knelt next to him and, powered by nothing but the urgent swimming feeling in her stomach, grabbed both his hands. "I want this. Not just tonight and tomorrow, but for good. Until I've spent most of my life picking up your disgusting socks and watching you get highlighter on the sheets."

She watched as realization slowly dawned across his face: widening his eyes, softening his brow, transforming his worry into this wonderful smile. He tangled their fingers together, his eyes searching hers as he asked, "You know the highlighter thing only happened once, right?"

"Shut up," Carol grumbled, tugging on his arm. He laughed, his face warm enough that it radiated through her whole body, and she smiled. "Hey, James?"

"Carol?"

"Will you marry me?" 

Despite everything that'd happened between that first meeting at the comedy show and tonight, James grinned. "Absolutely," he said, and reeled her in for a kiss.


	6. Bathroom

Darcy pounded on the bathroom door for the third time in under a minute. “It’s one of the few days I have to look decent at work this summer. Hurry up, Wade!”

A door opened down the hallway and Wade, dressed in a fluffy pink robe with a towel wrapped around his head, gave her a disgruntled look . “I know I haven’t had my morning vat of coffee yet, but I’m pretty sure I can’t be in two places at once. And if I could, the other place I’d be wouldn’t be the only bathroom in this house.”

“Why are people yelling?” a still half-asleep Peter asked as he stumbled out of his bedroom into the hall.

Darcy looked back and forth between the two men like they were playing on Centre Court at Wimbledon. “If all three of us are out here, then who’s in the shower?” 

“Gwen,” Peter answered.

“For the last forty-five minutes?” Darcy questioned.

Peter shrugged. “I guess. I’ve been asleep.”

Darcy turned to Wade. “How early did you have to wake up to get in the bathroom?”

“Oh, I haven’t showered,” Wade said. “I just like this look. It calms me.” 

Darcy swallowed a growl, one that questioned her life choices and sanity for moving in with these idiots. “Peter, if your girlfriend wants to use this much of our hot water as often as she does, she needs to start paying toward our bills.”

Peter’s face scrunched up. “She doesn’t stay here that often.”

“Yeah, dude, she totally does,” Wade said. “I mean, mad props to you and your mad skills—and consider that word to be ending with a z—“

“She doesn’t need to pay us money,” Peter interrupted to argue again.

“Yes, she does,” Darcy countered. “And judging from where she lives and how she just summered in Europe—“

“It was an internship,” Peter argued.

“Whatever. She can afford it,” Darcy said.

Peter twisted to face Wade. “If art class model took showers like Gwen—“

“First of all, I’d be in the shower with him. Not necessarily doing anything kinky. Just watching.”

“Because voyeurism isn’t kinky?” Darcy muttered.

“Regardless,” Wade said pointedly, “art class model is a totally stand-up guy and would chip in toward bills without being asked. And he wouldn’t hog all the hot water.”

“You don’t even know his name,” Peter grumbled.

“Doesn’t matter,” Wade responded. “I can feel his upright citizenship in my bones.” 

Darcy threw her hands up in the air and stomped back up to her loft space. She quickly threw clean clothes, toiletries, and a towel into a duffel bag and ran out to her car. Her two options were going to her Mom’s or going to Loki’s. Or a truck stop. Maybe she should just go to a truck stop. She could fight off potential murderers, right? 

Loki’s apartment was somewhat between her house and the school, so it won out. She whipped through side streets before pulling into the parking lot of his small apartment complex. She probably should’ve sent a text, since she was pretty sure he didn’t have to teach today. Okay, she knew it but didn’t like admitting she still had his schedule memorized and he therefore probably stayed up till four working on thesis shit and was probably dead to the world at the moment. But she didn’t send a text first because today was already a day that demanded a do-over, so whatever.

When Loki’s door opened, Darcy wished she’d texted beforehand. Desperately.

She didn’t recognize the woman . Honestly, she could’ve been the female version of Loki: tall, super pale, shoulder-length black hair, piercing eyes. She wore a black tank top and a pair of Loki’s boxers. Whoever she was, she definitely was not wearing a bra.

“May I help you?”

Her voice had the same slight accent that Loki had. It was dark and gritty, and even Darcy would let herself describe it as sexy if the situation wasn’t something awkward like this.

“Umm, sorry, I just-- Never mind, I’ll go,” Darcy sputtered as she turned to go back to her car, her face feeling so hot it may have actually been on fire. She thought she could hear Loki from inside the apartment, but she shut her eyes tightly and continued walking quickly back to her car on memory. She sped out of the parking lot as fast as she could. Once she was safely a couple blocks away, she pulled into a bank. Her hands shook as she pulled her cell phone out of her bag. She didn’t know if she wanted Loki to have texted her or for him to leave her alone. So far, he’d done the latter.

She flexed her fingers a couple of times to keep them from shaking before opening the group text message that included everyone in the elementary school’s front office. _Sorry to call off at the last second, especially on last-minute teacher interview day, but I’m sick._

Darcy threw the phone into her passenger seat before Pepper started asking what kind of soup she could bring by and Sitwell gave her shit for actually missing a day of work. Instead, she turned off her car and wondered when she’d reach the age where she’d get to stop asking when things would start to make sense in life.

* * *

Fitz sighed as he looked down the aisle of pain relief medication. “’Fitz, you have to help us. You’re our only hope.’ Please don’t bring _Star Wars_ into this.” He began to slowly move the shopping cart down the path of over-the-counter relief as he continued his conversation with himself while impersonating his best friend. “What’s wrong with the three of you, Jemma? ‘Oh, Skye’s running a fever, I have the chills, and Trip can’t stop throwing up. None of our symptoms are at all the same, but we clearly are suffering from the same illness.’ Of course you are, Jemma, because the second you become sick, you hallucinate that you have a degree in epidemiology. ‘Oh Fitz, we need your help so much since you never get sick.’ Maybe you should use me to make a vaccine. ‘Oh, silly goose, you mean an antidote.’”

“Everything okay?” a deep voice asked.

Fitz spun around a little too quickly to see a man standing behind him. A large man. A large, handsome man. The large, handsome man he was nurturing a slight obsession for. “Mack.”

“Fitz, right? Good to see you, man.”

He extended his hand, and Fitz grasped it. His short-circuiting brain immediately began calculating the correct amount of pressure and time to shake the physics teacher’s hand. “How— What are you doing here?”

“My roommate is hosting some big family fiesta. It’s always a blast, but whatever South American booze they throw back easier than water hits you like a truck the next morning,” he answered. “Need to make sure I’m stocked up on Advil. Seems like you’ve got a little bit of a dark cloud over your head, judging from how you were muttering at the antacids. Everything okay?”

“Umm, yeah. With me, at least. My friend— Have you met Jemma?”

“Spunky British chick? Likes to smile and ramble?”

Fitz nodded. “Human version of a chattering otter. Yeah, that’s her. She and her umm… roommates are sick. They sent me here to pick up supplies.”

“They all get each other sick? Their place too small?” Mack asked.

“Doesn’t matter how big their home is, they’d still be right on top of each other,” Fitz grumbled. Mack’s eyebrows rose slightly in surprise as he apparently pieced together what Fitz was hinting at. Normally, he wouldn’t talk like this; it was his friends’ choice to decide who knew about their polyamorous relationship status. But he was supposed to be at the pub watching football, not playing nurse.

“What kind of soup are you making?” Mack asked.

“Soup?”

“Yeah. Hot liquid? Sometimes has vegetables and noodles? They not have that in Scotland?”

Fitz pursed his mouth. “I know what bloody soup is. I just—I had other plans and I’m not much of a cook.”

“Soup’s easy,” Mack reassured. “Just dumping stuff in a pot.”

“You’d be surprised how easily I can muck up things,” Fitz confessed.

Mack smiled. “Yeah, but I bet when you do it’s big and you mean well.”

Fitz cursed his pale skin as he felt heat rush into his cheeks. He shrugged and hooked a thumb towards the shelves of medication. “I should get back to it. I don’t need another text describing their painful woes and how little toilet paper is left in their house.”

Mack shuddered slightly. “Egg drop soup.”

“I should get them Chinese food?” Fitz questioned.

Mack nodded. “Cook it. It’s an easy recipe—broth, egg, ginger, and soy sauce. You can add a ton of different stuff to spice it up, but if they have the flu, it’s best to stick to the basics. It’s liquid so they can sip it. Egg will help ‘em get some protein, and the ginger can help with nausea.”

“So you’re a chef on top of being a high school physics teacher?” Fitz asked.

“Nah, just a mama’s boy who spent a lot of time in the kitchen. And my roommate is obsessed with finding new recipes on Pinterest. But she usually makes me do the cooking.”

Fitz reached up and behind to scratch the back of his neck. “If you, um, if you need another taste tester I can—I mean if you wouldn’t mind, that is…”

The corner of Mack’s mouth curled up and revealed a beautiful dimple. “I’ll let you know the next time Yo-Yo puts me in test kitchen mode.”

“Yeah, sure, I mean sounds good.” He forced his mouth to shut and swallowed before making a bigger fool of himself. “Wait, did you just call your roommate ‘Yo-Yo?’”

Mack’s smile grew bigger. “Long story, but it’ll have to wait for another time. Good luck with your friends. It’s really nice that you’re taking care of them.”

Fitz shrugged off the compliment. “They’d do the same for me.”

* * *

"You know I'm sorry, right? Because in case I never really said it, I'm definitely—"

"You cleared it up," Bruce promised, and Tony grinned. Tentatively, like he expected Bruce to explode at any moment, but it still felt genuine enough that Bruce smiled back. The dust from the tile floated in the air around them, transforming the bathroom into a strange kind of snow globe. Tony even had dust in his hair and goatee, a very literal translation of the "salt and pepper" look he kept trying to avoid.

He waited until Bruce picked up his tube of grout to ask, "You sure?"

Bruce sighed. "Yes."

"Positive?"

He closed his eyes. "Tony—"

"Okay, okay," Tony cut in, raising his grout-stained hands. "I'm sufficiently sorry and need to stop needling you about it. Apology-related interrogation session officially over." He raised an eyebrow. "Unless—"

"Pepper deserves a Nobel Peace Prize at this point," Bruce decided, and Tony burst out laughing.

The little bubble of tension burst at about the same time, with both of them shaking their heads as they returned to tiling the bathroom floor. Thor'd recommended a handful of subcontractors to do the work (tile, apparently, was not his strong suit), but Pepper'd volunteered Tony's services before Bruce'd ever picked up the phone for an estimate. 

"He likes to tile," she'd said. "It'll be good for him."

Bruce'd raised an eyebrow. "For him, or for the two of us?"

Pepper hadn't answered.

But Tony'd showed up to the house with a six-pack of really expensive root beer (craft root beer, technically), a bunch of supplies from when he last destroyed their master bathroom, and a sheepish smile. The recalcitrant best friend starter pack, Bruce'd thought, and smiled back.

"Aloysius," Tony said suddenly, sitting back on his legs. Bruce raised an eyebrow. "No? How about Sampson? Warren?"

Bruce almost chuckled. "Are you still suggesting names?"

"Until my nephew in sobriety—not that he'll be that for very long, given that his mom's blood is at least one-tenth pure Russian vodka—is properly named, sure. Which is why—" Bruce pressed his lips together, and immediately, Tony's eyes widened. "You named him and didn't tell me?" he demanded.

Bruce scratched the side of his neck. "We weren't exactly on speaking terms at the time."

"I'm pretty sure naming your baby trumps any TSwift-style bad blood between us," Tony defended. When Bruce snorted, Tony poked him in the side with the tip of his grout tube. "Out with it."

"With what?"

"Your social security number, because I'm really in the mood for some high-quality identity theft." Bruce rolled his eyes, and Tony poked him again. "His name."

Bruce shook his head. "We're keeping it private until he's born."

"Which'll be sooner than you realize it," Tony pointed out, his eyes trained carefully on Bruce. "How're you feeling about that, by the way? Since we've kind of spent the last couple weeks playing the world's longest game of friendship keep-away."

"I—" Bruce started to answer, but he stopped when Tony cocked an eyebrow. Daring him to lie, Bruce knew, and for some reason, that actually relaxed his shoulders. "Most days, I'm fine. I can focus on the house, or helping Peter—or Natasha, not that she'd want me phrasing it that way."

Tony smirked. "Emotions still all over the place?"

"She'll kill me if I answer that," Bruce reminded him. His friend snorted a laugh, and he glanced down at his hands. "I'm trying not to worry," he finally admitted. "I've read enough baby books to know what's coming. I just don't want to be . . . "

He trailed off, the sentence sticking in the back of his throat, and Tony nudged his shoulder. "You remember what that one group leader always says, right? None of us are our exceptionally shitty parents."

Bruce snorted. "Don't think she phrased it that way."

"No, she rambled on about philosophy for a good half-hour. My version's a lot better." He rolled his eyes, but Tony just picked grout out from under his nails. "For what it's worth—and this is definitely not another apology—I'm here for you. To talk about the worried parts. Or, you know, about how cute Anthony Banner's going to be."

Bruce almost laughed. "You think Natasha'd let me name him after you?"

"I think she needs to realize that I'm basically the brother-in-law she never knew she wanted," Tony fired back, and this time, Bruce actually chuckled. "And to circle back to the main point: you're going to be a good dad. Which I think you know."

"Most the time, I do," Bruce admitted. "It just— It keeps sneaking up on me. One minute, Natasha's telling me she's pregnant. The next, we're planning for the future. Buying a house. Naming our son." He shook his head. "I sometimes wish life'd slow down a little."

"Yeah, except you'd never survive that," Tony countered. Bruce frowned at him, and he shrugged. "Guys like you—like both of us, really, but we can save my character flaws for later—always overthink things. Pick them apart, you know? The faster the pace, the less likely we are to worry ourselves sick about unfinished houses and impending babies. We kind of need the breakneck speed."

Bruce nodded absentmindedly before narrowing his eyes. "Wait, did you just give me helpful advice about something without talking about yourself first?" 

Tony snorted. "Perish the thought," he replied, but he smiled, too.

* * *

"Do you know about the terrible smell in the house? Please tell me you know about it."

Phil glanced up from the flowerbed—well, weed-bed, lately—that stretched in front of the house to discover Clint standing on the front porch. He looked a little manic. Or, Phil amended, a little sick. "I've been out here since before you left for groceries," he said, pulling out his earbuds. "All I smell is fresh air and futility."

Clint worked hard not to smirk. "Still fighting with the weeds?"

"With absolutely no help, yes." Phil ignored his aching knees (and, worse, his husband's smug grin) to stand. "I thought you wanted to knock out all your errands this morning. Stock up before the— What'd you say when you left? You wanted to stock up before the disaffected youth showed up to bag your groceries?"

"Mangle my groceries." Phil rolled his eyes, but Clint jabbed a finger at him. "I buy the good bread, and they destroy it. Vegetables, too. And unless you wanna take over all the cooking—"

Phil cocked an eyebrow. "Think for a minute. Who are you really punishing with that threat: you or me?"

A beat of silence passed between them before Clint wrinkled his nose. "Fine, point," he grumbled. "And I stopped back here after I ran to Target because I forgot the grocery list. Didn't you hear me?"

Phil pursed his lips. "Would you believe I was listening to a history podcast?"

"Actually, yeah, since I married a nerd." He frowned a little, but Clint waved him off. "The house smells bad, Phil. Like something died and evacuated its bowels after rolling around in raw sewage, and we let it rot for a week."

"Descriptive."

"I'm just telling you like I smell it," Clint defended. "The _Walking Dead_ zombies smell like roses compared to our house right now."

"First season or second?" Phil wondered.

Clint heaved a sigh. "You are such a fucking nerd," he grumbled, and stomped back into the house.

Phil smirked a little as he trotted up after him, but his smile died the second he actually crossed the threshold into the living room. Because instead of smelling like a breezy summer day, the air in the living room felt thick and heavy, and—

He breathed in, and his eyes watered.

A meat packing plant in the days before commercial refrigeration smelled better than his house, right now. He almost choked. "What did you do?" 

"Me?" Clint demanded. "Phil, I've been gone, like, an hour. Whatever swamp creature died in our house snuck in while I was gone. Either that, or the toilet—"

Phil raised a hand. "If you curse us to another household disaster," he warned, "I will divorce you."

Clint rolled his eyes. "Yeah, after running up our Lowe's bill," he grumbled, but he continued his slow creep through the house.

Phil sighed at his back and wandered into the kitchen, but as usual, he discovered the fridge running normally and the garbage undisturbed. Nothing out of the ordinary, really, except the way the back door swayed a little in the breeze. He'd probably forgotten to close it after he'd mowed the lawn that morning.

Just as he tugged it closed, he heard Clint shout, "Holy shit!"

He practically ran across the house to their bedroom—and almost died when a fresh wave of the mystery stench hit him in the face.

From her spot on their bed, Birdie wagged her tail.

Birdie's usually light fur looked almost black in the dim light, and the second Phil flicked the wall switch, he realized that instead of an optical illusion, he faced a dirty dog. A filthy dog, covered head to toe in the combination of all-natural fertilizer and compost he'd spread in the garden yesterday afternoon and lying on their bedspread.

As he gaped at her, she flopped over to show off her belly.

Clint burst out laughing. "You fucking lunatic," he told her, and she woofed quietly as she thumped her dirty tail against Phil's pillow. "Your daddy's gonna give you one hell of a—" He paused to finger-spell the word _bath_ , and Phil rolled his eyes. "You excited about that, you disgusting swamp creature? You excited about some time in the—"

Phil elbowed him as he signed _water_. "You can just spell it, you know."

"And risk her figuring that shit out? No way." He flinched as the ceiling fan spread the terrible smell around. "You deal with her, I'll wash the sheets?"

"You might as well burn the sheets," Phil said, leaving Clint to laugh as he dragged the dog off the bed.

Fifteen minutes later, as Phil sat on the edge of the tub with a shivering, whimpering infant of a dog, Clint walked up and propped his shoulder against the doorjamb. "Having fun yet?"

He snickered when Phil twisted around to show off his soaked shirt. "What do you think?" he asked, running the hand-sprayer over Birdie's back for the thirtieth time. "I'm writing this down, you know. Next time she needs a bath—"

Birdie barked and scrabbled against the tile, trying desperately to wriggle out of his grasp. He held on for dear life, only vaguely aware of Clint's wheezing laughter behind him. 

He did, however, flip his husband off when he heard the click of a cell-phone camera. "Next time," he warned, "you're on dirty Birdie duty."

Clint raised his hands. "I'm not the asshole who forgot to close the back door," he said, and Phil rolled his eyes. "Besides, could be worse. Imagine having a kid who hated water."

"No child is as bad as this one," Phil retorted.

Birdie agreed by shaking off all over him.

* * *

“Target?” Pepper questioned. “I’m offering an all-expenses-paid day out while our men grout and tile, and you want to go to Target? Surely with moving and the baby you’ve already been there twice this week.”

“Three,” Natasha corrected. “But stupid preggo brain makes me keep forgetting things I actually need.” 

“Anything else after?” Pepper pushed. “Massage? My masseuse does prenatal stuff, I think.”

Natasha shook her head. “I’m iffy about strangers touching me on a normal day. In this state? Half of the time, I try to hide from Bruce.”

“Please, you still look great,” Pepper reassured her.

Natasha snorted in disagreement. “If I’m this big now, I don’t want to see myself in four weeks when I’m due.” 

“Hopefully he’ll be early, but not too early,” Pepper said while pulling into Target’s parking lot. “The house is almost done. And even if you guys may not feel like it, you’re ready to be parents and you’ll be great at it.”

Natasha didn’t respond, and Pepper hoped she hadn’t overstepped her bounds. It wasn’t normal for the two of them to hang out by themselves, but with Tony and Bruce mending their friendship and heading back to their state of being inseparable, Pepper figured she and Natasha needed to do some bonding. Even though, in all honesty, neither of them were really good at having girl time, at least the stereotypical version of it. Sure, Pepper knew all the best places to get a manicure or run up Tony’s credit card for new shoes, but that didn’t mean she was good at spending time with female friends. 

The two of them walked into the store in relatively comfortable silence. Pepper fought the urge to try and start a conversation—too many years of being around Tony and his incessant chattering. “Starbucks?” Pepper offered.

Natasha tapped the water bottle hooked on to her bag. “I need to just stick to this, but feel free.”

“I’m good,” Pepper responded. “So what do we need to finally cross of your list?”

“Diapers. Today’s the last day for a sale, and for the last time, you really don’t have to pay for things. It’s okay.”

“Think of it as making Tony pay for stuff,” Pepper suggested. “Maybe taking advantage of his bank account will make things feel better?”

Natasha looked uneasy but started walking toward the center of the store anyway. “Want to take bets on running into Phil?”

“Too easy,” Pepper scoffed. “You know he can’t go thirty-six hours without stepping foot in here even if he doesn’t buy anything.”

“You never know what might get moved to the clearance rack that morning,” Natasha said doing a decent impression of their librarian friend. She paused and sighed in front of the shelf of diapers. “Now to remember what size.”

“Don’t you need newborn?” Pepper asked.

“We have some of those already thanks to the guys on staff taking Bruce out for his diaper-date-whatever excuse to throw him a baby shower without it sounding girly . Besides, Bruce wants to do cloth diapers, so we’re getting disposable ones for traveling and on the off chance that someone else will be watching the baby and isn’t comfortable dealing with shit-covered rags.” Her lip wrinkled slightly. “I’m still not sure I’m ready to deal with shit-covered rags. But then I had to go have a baby with the greenest man to walk the earth.” 

Pepper hid her smile by turning around, not quite sure she was supposed to hear that last comment. Her eyes caught on a yellow terry cloth. It was a towel that offered a hood in the form of a duck's head. She couldn’t help but reach out and pick it up, admiring its softness. “I’m getting this for you. For the baby, whatever.”

“You know we already have three of those?” Natasha questioned.

“Ducks?”

Natasha shook her head. “Frog, dog, and… something else. But it’s not yellow.”

“Then you need a duck,” Pepper declared . When Natasha opened her mouth to argue, Pepper lifted her chin to cut her off. It was an effective maneuver for husbands, principals, and young students alike. “I’m an aunt already, but my family is far away. I love my nieces and nephews, but I miss that I only get to be an aunt in person a couple times a year. Let me bribe you with some free diapers every now and then, or whatever you guys need, to feel that more often. Besides, Bruce is the closest thing Tony has to family. You know he’s going to be involved—for better or worse—no matter what. Maybe just let us in? Just a little?” Pepper asked. “I know you have Bucky and—“

“He’ll need an aunt, too,” Natasha agreed. “Can’t let him be surrounded by idiot men all the time.”

* * *

Jessica Drew sighed. "I don't know, it just felt very— Okay, remember the first week of undergrad, where they stuck you in a peer group and you had to, like, talk about your feelings?"

Through some kind of witchcraft, Carol cocked an eyebrow without screwing up her eyeliner. "You think I remember the first week of undergrad?" she asked. "I was old enough to drink, and that's what I did."

"And I waited until the second week like a fool," Jessica lamented, shaking her head. "But, anyway, this picnic thing? It felt like that. They wanted us to go around the room and introduce ourselves. Meaning that I grabbed my cup of sad, nonalcoholic punch and slipped out the back."

Eyes now perfectly smoky (the bastard), Carol glanced over. "You didn't spike the punch?" 

Jessica scoffed. "And share the good stuff I keep in my purse flask? Please. It's like you don't even know me."

Her buddy chuckled and dove back into her makeup bag (probably in search of the perfect mascara, because when Carol actually agreed to go out, lady brought her A-game), but Jessica just pursed her lips. She studied her best friend like some wild animal in a _National Geographic_ documentary, because something felt a little off. Not about Carol, necessarily—woman held advanced degrees in masking her feelings and acting totally normal—but just the whole _agreeing to a night out on the town_ scenario.

She waited for her friend to lean in to the bathroom mirror to ask, "Okay, what gives?"

Carol missed her lashes by about three inches. "What?"

"You're being—" Jessica sort of waved her hand around, a sweeping gesture that included the whole bathroom, the two of them, and their tastefully sparkly outfits, but Carol just rolled her eyes. "You're listening to my incredibly boring story, which, fine, that's in your best friend policy and procedure manual and I support that."

Carol snorted. "Policy and procedure manual?" 

"Shut up, I'm trying to make a point here." She smirked, and Jessica jabbed her in the arm with a fingernail. "But you're being kind of quiet. Almost 'hiding something from Jessica Drew, who can usually smell that shit on me' quiet, and that—" A thought smacked into her like a freight train, and she reared back a step. "Did you dump him?"

"What?" This time, Carol jerked her head hard enough that she poked herself in the eye with her mascara brush. She swore, dropping it into the sink and leaving a little black trail. "Why in the world would I—"

"I don't know, because his ultimatum scared you?" Jessica retorted, shrugging. "Fair enough, by the way, but a night of shots and morning of shot-related regret will not fix letting one of the only good men in the universe—"

"Jess, I didn't dump him, I proposed to him."

Carol kind of snapped it, the words quick and intense (just like her, really), and for a second, Jessica's whole body sort of froze. She stood there like an idiot, her mouth hanging open and her hand raised in protest. When her vocal chords finally loosened back up, she released a noise like a dying seal.

Carol sighed. "I didn't mean to say it like that," she said, her cheeks a little pink under her makeup. "I wanted to buy you a drink and thank you for being my voice of reason. A sentence I never thought I'd say, but when it comes to James—"

Whatever other mildly sentimental bullshit Carol'd planned on spouting ended in a grunt when Jessica rushed forward and hugged her. Clung to her, really, a kind of affection she generally saved for her drunkest moments. "You sweet, emotionally stunted starfish," she said, rocking them back and forth. "You incredible, proactive turtledove."

Carol laughed against her ear. "Well, guess I know what you've been binge-watching this summer."

"Only because my best friend is proposing to men without telling me!" Jessica retorted, smacking Carol in the arm. She grinned, the relief on her face almost palpable, and Jessica hit her other arm for good measure. "You didn't even call first! Whatever happened to doing tequila shots and talking about our terrible life plans?"

Carol cringed. "It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing, no time to—"

"Text? Send out one of those bird messengers? Scribble it on a scrap of paper to remind yourself to tell me after what I can only assume was amazing post-engagement sex? Sex that you need to tell me about in detail, in case you think you're going to avoid it." Carol rolled her eyes and looked a little annoyed—at least, until Jessica squeezed her arm. "Good for you," she said, and she meant it right down to her toes. "Like, maybe it's weird for me to be proud of you—"

"Why would that be weird?" Carol wondered.

"—but I'm proud. And excited. And . . . " Another thought occurred to her, one a lot more dangerous than Carol dumping her boyfriend (now fiancé), and a grin crawled across her face. Not a normal grin, either; in the mirror, she looked like the Grinch when he hatched his evil, Christmas-ruining plan.

Carol grit her teeth. "Please don't say it."

"Don't say what? That Tony's going to find out and lose his mind? Don't say that part?" She groaned, and Jessica laughed. "Oh man, Carol, you are _so_ screwed."


	7. (Wo)Man Caves

"Were they ever really this small?" Darcy asked, holding up a tiny yellow dress. "Because now that they tackle me to the ground—"

"They tackle _you_?" Jane asked, snorting. "Get caught in their tickle-war crossfire, sometime. They're lucky I didn't break something when they tripped me." 

Darcy blinked. "On purpose?"

"According to Henry, no. George, on the other hand . . . " Jane shrugged, trailing off, and her friend grinned as she reached for the sheet of price stickers. "I know most parents miss the baby days, but I'm glad they can pour juice and open their own fruit snacks."

"Until Alva and George create another flour mountain for his dinosaur toys," Darcy pointed out, laughing when Jane wrinkled her nose. She stuck a price on the yellow dress, folded it, and moved on to the next. "You sure you don't want to hoard their baby clothes, though? Pass it on to somebody worthy?"

Jane raised an eyebrow. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

Darcy waved a pair of toddler overalls like a white flag. "No. Nope. Never. I will stick to being a cool almost-aunt who fills them with funnel cake and brings them home unscathed." Jane tipped her head to one side, and Darcy cringed. "Slightly unscathed? I mean, nobody needed stitches."

"Alva's nose peeled for three days," Jane reminded her.

"And like I said before," Darcy fired back, "Loki was on sunscreen duty, not me."

Jane chuckled a little, shaking her head, and Darcy huffed as she continued pricing all the baby clothes. Around them, the garage looked a little like a Babies 'R' Us delivery truck threw up all over, with clothes and toys covering several tables. Jane'd tried organizing the chaos into different sections, but she suspected her neat piles wouldn't survive the morning.

Actually, she worried they wouldn't survive Darcy, who kept mixing up different sizes of baby clothes. Still, emptying out some of the plastic tubs of old kid stuff freed up room for the current kid stuff, like Alva's ever-growing collection of horses and George's piles of dinosaurs, his latest science obsession. 

At least he'd stopped asking her to build a papier-mâché solar system like the one he'd seen at the children's museum.

"How's Loki doing, by the way?" Jane glanced up from a leaning tower of board books to catch Darcy carefully arranging a bunch of bibs. "You talk to him lately or anything?"

Jane shrugged. "Not really. After we visit Thor's parents, we usually all need a couple weeks away from each other. Too much family togetherness in close quarters." Darcy snorted a little, her face tipped down, and Jane frowned. "Why? I thought you were—"

"Oh, we're fine," Darcy interrupted, waving a hand. "Nothing weird. I just wondered . . . "

She shook her head like she wanted to chase the thought away, and Jane pursed her lips. "If he said or did anything—"

Darcy rolled her eyes. "You'll hop in Thor's white pickup truck and defend my honor?"

"He's a grad student and lives on ramen. Whatever fight you're imagining, I'd win." She snorted at that, almost smiling, and Jane wandered over. "Listen, I'm an old married woman. I have no idea what you're going through. But I know Loki still cares about you, even if someone needs to translate whatever stupidity his 'silver tongue' spewed this time."

Darcy grinned at her air-quotes for a split second, but her expression dimmed in record time. She straightened a row of baby shoes before asking, "Does he have a friend who kind of looks like him? Tall, pale, dark hair? Looks like she's probably killed somebody with her mind?"

Jane frowned. "I'm not sure Loki has many friends, never mind—" She paused, her brain catching up to her mouth, and immediately rolled her lips together. 

Darcy cocked an eyebrow. "Who is she?"

Jane raised her hands. "I didn't say anything."

"No, you just made your _figured out the science answer_ face. And since we're nowhere near a telescope or your notes . . . " She waved her hand, clearly encouraging Jane to finish, but Jane shook her head. "Come on! I'm pouring out my soul here!"

"No, you're dribbling. At best." Darcy crossed her arms, initiating a stare-down, and Jane held her gaze. For a minute, they stood like that, the garage silent except for the occasional car driving down the street. Finally, though, Jane sighed. "He has an old friend who looks like that," she admitted. "From home. I think they ran into each other when we visited."

Darcy narrowed her eyes. "And?"

Jane felt the blood drain from her face. "And what?" 

"Your voice changes when you're hiding something. You're just lucky the kids haven't picked up on it yet." She wrinkled her nose, but Darcy pinned her with a look. "What aren't you telling me about her?"

They watched each other for a few more seconds before Jane said, "You know Heimdall has a sister, right?"

Darcy snorted. "You mean Thor's ex-girlfriend sister who, like, fights insurgents with her bare hands? Built like a murderous supermodel? That sister?"

Jane nodded. "Right, that's her."

"Okay, but I don't—" Jane forced a tight smile, her face fighting her the whole time, and Darcy stopped talking to blink. "You think that Loki's friend is—"

"I don't know," Jane admitted, raising a hand. "But maybe."

"That's . . . " Darcy's expression flickered for a moment, vacant and a little lost, but she shook her head before Jane even considered asking. "Well, good for him," she said, her voice hard. "About time, really."

Jane sighed. "Darcy—"

"No, really, I'm fine," Darcy insisted, grabbing the last box of baby clothes. "Now, come on. Neighborhood garage sale starts in an hour, and these onesies aren't going to price themselves."

* * *

Phil tried not to cringe as he heard Clint slam his fists down on the desk in the office. Again. He didn't know what exactly his husband was trying to break, but apparently, it was his own sanity. Phil had given up his personal work space to Clint so that he could do some last-minute curriculum planning before the school year started up again. Of course, he certainly wished that Clint would begin his curriculum planning sooner than two weeks before school started, but no one was perfect. Especially when your name was Clint Barton. 

Birdie, napping beside Phil on the couch, sighed in her sleep, content with dozing through the noise. Phil was jealous she could tune out the banging, loud phone calls, and mutterings coming from the office. 

He picked up his phone as it started making noise and unlocked the screen to pictures of books. And more books. Darcy's message then came through as _Books. You know you want them._

He did. He always did. Clint budgeted him harder in book purchases than he did ties, possibly because they both knew they'd be beyond physically spent if Clint modified their tie game to include literature. _Where are you?_ Phil typed.

 **Darcy:** _Odinfamily garage sale. Come save me from Jane's glare when I mess up her precious piles._

 _You should know better than to mess with a scientist's organizational system_ , he texted.

 _Yeah, but don't you think that sorting things by color is better than size? If it's good enough for Goodwill, then it's good enough for a garage sale_ , she replied. 

Phil smiled as he typed back, _I'll be over in a bit_. He then switched his text stream over to his one with Natasha. _Busy?_ he asked. 

A moment later her response came through. _If by busy you mean trying to avoid yet another nap for the day, then yes._

 _Want to go to the Odinson family garage sale with me? Darcy sent me pictures of books they're selling, but I saw some baby stuff in the background. You know we can play the teacher card to haggle the best price_.

 _I'm too fat to haggle, but I'll let you do it for me. Meet there?_

_I'll pick you up_ , he said. Swinging by Natasha and Bruce's house would make his drive a little longer, which was a bonus for his marriage at the moment. “I'm going out for a bit,” Phil shouted in the general direction if the office. “Taking the dog with me.” Clint didn't respond, and Phil wondered if he'd turned off his hearing aids as a way to focus. Phil quickly scribbled a note letting Clint know where he and the dog were and slipped it under the office door.

“C’mon,” he said to the dog while poking her in the side. “Let’s go outside.” Birdie side-eyed him, clearly not onboard with his plan. “And then we’ll go for a ride.” That was the magic word as the dog bounded off the couch, suddenly full of energy, and sped to the back door. When Phil didn’t keep up with her, she yelped at him to hurry up.

When they pulled up to Natasha and Bruce’s new house, Natasha was in the garage poking around in a box. “Get in, loser, we’re going shopping,” Phil greeted.

“You’re too old to quote _Mean Girls_ ,” she replied. “ Let me grab my bag.” A minute later, she climbed into the car with a sigh. Birdie whined in the backseat, and Natasha turned to give her a small smile. “Nice to see you, too. Your other dad being his crazy self?”

“It’s his annual ‘revamp all my lesson plans for the year’ day,” Phil answered.

Natasha snorted. “He means well.”

“I know, but he also trashes my office, so I’m getting out of the house instead of murdering my husband. How are things going with you all?”

“Officially full term since I’m now at thirty-seven weeks,” Natasha told him. He already knew that since he and Clint were part of the ring of staff members who had weekly reminders set up for how far Natasha was in her pregnancy . “Which means Bruce’s hovering has increased ten-fold.”

“You still going to try and start the school year?” Phil asked.

“As I’ve explained to Bruce three times just today, I have to with the way vacation days and disability works. Unless I’m in the hospital, I’ll be at work.”

“Hopefully he’ll come sooner rather than later,” Phil said.

Natasha poked her stomach. “See? Even Uncle Phil says you should come out already.”

* * *

Bucky pursed his lips. "Hate to say it, but you've officially got a problem."

Steve hid his flush by rolling his eyes. "In my defense," he said, "my intentions were good. Plus, we need a new coffee table."

"Road to hell's paved with good intentions," Bucky pointed out. "And last time I checked, we had three coffee tables in here, not one."

Steve scowled, but honestly, Bucky had a point. Because while Steve picked up new projects every summer—like clockwork, his mom usually said, smirking at him—this time, he'd hardly even started, well, anything. The three coffee tables he'd bought at estate sales, all of them contenders to replace the scuffed-up mess in their living room, judged him silently from the back corner of the garage; across from them, a wall-to-ceiling cabinet in need of a fresh coat of stain peered out at him from under a protective cloth. He had two dining room chairs with seats he'd promised his mom he'd reupholster, an old bedside table he wanted to repaint, and a dresser that he planned on selling—if he ever attached the new knobs he'd bought. With all the furniture, their garage looked a little like an IKEA showroom. 

If you overlooked the cobwebs and dust, at least.

He scratched a hand through his hair and glanced over at Bucky. "For the record," he said, "I planned on finishing at least a couple of these over the summer. But between family, friends, helping out Bruce and Natasha—" 

"Distracting me while mowing the yard," Bucky chimed in.

"Wait, I distracted _you_?" Steve responded, shoving Bucky in the shoulder. "Because only one of us stripped half-naked every time he had to pull weeds, and it wasn't me."

Bucky laughed, a nice break from his smug little grin. "Yeah, but I'm not the one who looks like some kinda sun-kissed god with my shirt off."

"Look in the mirror some time," Steve grumbled, and Bucky snorted. But then, he looked back out at the clutter again, and the more Steve tracked his gaze, the worse he felt. Guilty, like a kid with his hand caught in the candy jar. He sighed. "I'll go through the mess this afternoon. Put a couple things on Craigslist, just to free up some elbow room. Maybe—"

"You think I dragged you out here 'cause I'm pissed about the mess?" Bucky cut in. Steve blinked a couple times, frowning, and his husband rolled his eyes. "Steve, if I cared, I would've told you. I brought you into the garage to help."

Steve raised his eyebrows. "With?"

"Finishing a couple projects?" He blinked again, and Bucky shook his head. "Look, I know I'm not the handiest guy on the planet, but you like this stuff. And every time we duck in here for the mower, you make this sad face like the summer got away from you. Well, not anymore." He reached into his back pocket and produced a sheet of sandpaper. "Teach me, Master Rogers."

Steve spent a good couple seconds fighting the urge to laugh. When he eventually lost the battle, he snickered hard enough that Bucky scowled at him. "Sorry," he said, raising a hand. "I'm not laughing at you. It's just—"

"That you don't trust me around your _Fixer Upper_ -style masterpieces?" Bucky asked, hands on his hips. "Because up until this morning, you liked me working with my hands."

He wiggled his fingers, and a little spike of heat curled in Steve's stomach. "It's not your hands I'm worried about," he admitted. "It's your perfectionist streak."

"You think precision's bad for sanding?" Bucky wondered.

"Not for sanding, no. But the process usually turns a little messy. That's all."

Immediately, Bucky rolled his eyes. "I bake. I cook. And more than all of that, I work with a bunch of kids who just stopped eating paste. I'll be fine." He bumped their shoulders together and gestured to the garage. "Now, point me in the direction of your most urgent project."

Steve snorted. "How about we start you on the dresser knobs and work your way up?" 

To Bucky's credit, the man knew his way around an electric screwdriver. More importantly, he really wanted those knobs on perfectly straight. But now, after a good hour of working together, well.

Sometimes, you needed backup.

 _You sure I can't convince you to come over?_ Steve typed, peering into the garage. Bukcy'd survived about ten minutes with the power sander before deciding he needed to vacuum up all the debris. And the cobwebs in the corner. And—

Steve's phone chimed. **Natasha:** _I'm at a garage sale._

He blinked. _Is this some code phrase you've developed with Bucky? Means you're not safe and we should rescue you?_

The eyeroll emoji popped up on his screen almost instantly. _Kid stuff isn't cheap. How bad is it?_

Steve peeked back in to where Bucky was crouching to suck up old sawdust from under the work bench. _He's communing with the shopvac right now. We're only halfway done sanding the old finish off this table. And when he finds out I stain without a drop cloth . . ._

 _Oh, you wild man,_ Natasha sent back, and he rolled his eyes. _Give me twenty minutes. I demand lemonade, the whole couch, and something to watch that's not HGTV._

Steve breathed a sigh of relief. _Anything to get him out of my garage._

* * *

“You still working on that thing?”

Mack smiled without lifting his head out from under the hood of the old convertible. “Some of us like to take our time with our hobbies. Go slow and make sure things are done right.”

Elena, nicknamed Yo-Yo for how much she liked to bounce around everywhere, muttered his usual nickname—turtle —under her breath. “Speed doesn’t mean carelessness.”

“I think our students’ homework disagrees with that statement.”

Yo-Yo shushed him. “We have two weeks of summer left. Let’s enjoy what little remains of our freedom.” 

She had a point. When either of them had the courage to check their work email, they saw they were already getting spammed with new procedures and a ridiculous amount of clichéd sayings from the high school’s new principal, Jeffrey Mace . The influx had caused the science department group text to become a series of hesitant thoughts about how the upcoming school year would go. Yo-Yo said the same was happening inside the department she chaired, but at least that group of teachers could mutter their concerns to each other in languages other than English. 

While messing with carburetor, Mack heard Yo-Yo putter around on her side of the garage, setting up another canvas to paint, no doubt. She’d worked at an art museum in her native Columbia before moving to the States. She could easily be an amazing art teacher, but saved the hobby as a means to relieve stress and spent the school year teaching the high-level and AP Spanish courses at the high school. It was the same reason Mack taught physics instead of an automotive class at the vocational school the district fed into—sometimes you needed to protect the things you love from becoming work. 

“You need to go on a date,” Yo-Yo stated.

“This again?”

“When was the last time you went out?”

“So that’s what my mom sounds like with a Spanish accent,” Mack grumbled. “I’m fine,” he said louder.

“You’re too handsome to keep to yourself,” Yo-Yo told him.

“If only you were my type,” he said as he stood up and stretched. “Make things pretty convenient for the both of us.”

Yo-Yo practically leered at him. “Just because you don’t want me doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about you.”

Mack smiled and shook his head. “Sorry to make reality a disappointment.”

“You never disappoint in my mind,” she said with a waggle of her eyebrows before turning back to her canvas to channel what she wanted to create. 

He watched her for a bit while rubbing his hands clean on a towel and straightening up his own work space. When she’d first shared his talent with him, she’d taught him about Jackson Pollock. The painter was only sober when he painted and used his art as a means to try and deal with his pain and mental health issues. Yo-Yo’s work was similar, the colors running together in a chaotic mess. Mack knew she didn’t create the art for money, although she had sold a couple of her pieces. This was her way to deal with life—the death of her cousin, homesickness, and frustration at trying to make people’s lives better but not always pulling it off. Mack understood her frustrations. It was probably why he spent all of his spare time and cash fixing up cars others had given up on. It was his attempt to restore the rusty and broken pieces of his own life: his father’s death, his brother’s troubles, and Tim. Three years later and the hellacious night where he’d lost Tim still haunted him. The pain had lessened but some memories—like the stickiness of Tim’s blood on his hands—still had yet to fade. They’d been together for two-and-a-half years, and Mack hadn’t dated anyone since. He knew it wasn’t likely to repeat what had happened to Tim, but he hadn’t felt the need to be with anyone else. His heart, like the convertible, still had some restoration work before it would work properly. Or some poetic bullshit like that. 

His thoughts were interrupted when his back pocket began to buzz. He pulled out his cell phone to read the incoming text message.

 **New Boss:** _Want to meet for lunch tomorrow? Would love to hear your ideas on how to help our team triumph and push our students forward_.

“Your turn for the pep talk?” Yo-Yo asked without turning from her canvas.

“Guess so.”

“ _Bueno suerte_ ,” she said.

“ _Gracías_.”

* * *

Every woman in every marriage reaches her limit sooner or later.

Like, for example, on a rainy Wednesday afternoon in the middle of summer.

Despite the home office being across the house from the garage, Pepper still felt the pounding bassline of Tony's music in the soles of her feet, never mind the incessant clanging and crashing. She'd tried all week to ignore it—to drown it out with podcasts, her favorite television shows, and even earplugs—but Tony's new project still tortured her. And distracted her from the grant proposal she really hoped to finish.

She dug her fingers into her hair, trying desperately to listen to her history show. Instead, she just heard the distant strains of Led Zeppelin's greatest hits.

She slammed her laptop closed. "I'm going to kill him," she announced, and shoved her chair away from the desk.

The music rose from loud to deafening as she walked across the house, rattling some of their wall art with the force of the drum beat. When she threw open the door to the garage hard enough that it banged into the wall, the crash just blended in with the chaos. She strode past their cars to Tony's new project, an imported red soft top with "potential" but a completely ruined engine. He'd already dismantled and reassembled the fuel line and now laid under the car, singing along with the music.

At the top of his lungs.

Pepper glanced at him, grit her teeth, and unplugged his stereo.

"—crying for leaving!" Tony warbled as the music died, although "leaving" sounded mostly like a noise of protest. Pepper planted her hands on her hips as he emerged from under the car, his face grease-covered and highly offended. "You know I was listening to that, right?" he demanded. "Because I know you're all about the boring history podcasts while you're working, but I need—"

"To deafen everyone in a three block radius?" Pepper demanded. He rolled his eyes, ready to roll back under the car until she shoved a foot behind one of the wheels on his mechanic's creeper. "I could feel 'Stairway to Heaven' in my teeth, Tony."

"Okay, I'll switch to 'Kashmir.'" She narrowed her eyes, and he held up his hands. "Fine, I'll turn it down. Whatever you want. But if you don't let me finish this—"

"You can't start another unnecessary project?" Tony's expression hardened slightly, and Pepper raised her eyebrows. "I'm right, aren't I? Because in the last few weeks, you've helped Bruce with about a dozen home-improvement projects, replaced my alternator belt—" 

"Better than letting it snap on the interstate," Tony defended.

"—rebuilt one of our computers, and bought this car on the internet. And while I don't care how you spend your money—"

"Are you sure?" he asked. "Because from the tone of this conversation, I'm pretty sure you're mad and want to at least lodge a formal complaint."

"—I'm a little worried that the next step is building a Roomba-style lawn mower."

Immediately, Tony's eyes sparkled. "Actually—" he started, but he stopped when Pepper arched an eyebrow at him. They stared each other down for a few seconds before he sighed, his shoulders falling. "I like feeling useful," he admitted. "Last couple years, I worked for at least part the summer. Reorganized the lab, helped rerun the wiring in the library, optimized all my machines while scrubbing them of disgusting summer school germs. This year, I'm kind of—"

He flapped a hand, clearly searching for the word, and Pepper bit down on her smirk. "Bored?"

"At a loose end," he supplied, glaring at her smile. "And, yeah, I know, I don't just get to have my ego stroked all day, every day, but you're writing a grant, Bruce's having a kid, and I—"

He blew out a hard breath with a shake of his head, and Pepper smiled as she crouched down in front of him. "You need a break," she decided, her fingers carding through his hair. "A change of scenery where your usefulness starts with paying for dinner and ends with— Well, I'll let you be creative with the end point." He snorted, almost smiling, and she cupped his cheek in her hand. "I know you wanted to skip going away this year because of Bruce—" 

"And because visiting your parents feels like a week-long reminder about the silver spoon my parents shoved in my mouth at birth," Tony protested.

Pepper cocked her head to one side. "You think it's only one spoon?" He grinned, his face brightening, and she smiled back. "Let's take a long weekend. Now, before school starts and any almost-nephews show up."

"Nephew in sobriety," Tony corrected, and she rolled her eyes. "And I'm game for that. I mean, I probably owe you, what with the summer of sulking and banging around and starting a blood feud with your redheaded soul-sister."

"A blood feud you lost," Pepper pointed out.

"Yes, and thank you for salting that wound." She laughed, and he pressed his face into her palm. "You pick out our vacation destination already?"

"Given that I'm still working on my grant proposal, no," Pepper admitted. "But, since you like to be useful . . . "

Tony beamed. "Challenge accepted," he said, and swooped in to kiss her before digging out his phone.

* * *

“You’re sure he’s not going to fire me?” Peter asked. From the way Darcy rolled her eyes, he knew he’d posed the question too many times since Fury had called him yesterday afternoon asking to meet first thing in the morning.

“This is why we’re taking separate cars,” Darcy told him as she grabbed her extra large travel mug of coffee. “I’ll see you at work.”

“Yeah,” Peter replied weakly. He hadn’t told Gwen or Aunt May about the ominous summons . Sure, they could’ve talked him off the monumental cliff he’d built for himself, but he didn’t want them to worry. He would’ve talked to Wade about it, something that was terrifying to admit, but his other roommate had gone out to camp by himself in the woods. A couple days of “naked communion with nature” to center himself before the school year started. Peter and Darcy had a pool going of when they would have to pick up Wade from jail and how much his bail would cost. 

He poked at his bowl of cereal a bit more before giving up and dumping it down the sink. He considered some coffee but knew that would just send his sensitive nerves into overdrive. He had enough trouble controlling his mouth as it was; no need to screw himself over with caffeine.

Peter checked his clothes and hair twice more before getting in the car and driving to school. On the way, he started listing all the reasons why he was an invaluable member to the school’s staff and shouldn’t be fired. He wondered if he could cry discrimination if he were fired since he was one of the few straight guys on staff. He then realized how hard the internet would hate him if that leaked and decided to come up with some other qualifications. 

When he walked into the office, Darcy picked up the phone, presumably to call Fury on the intercom. “Please call him back quickly. I’ve already had to deal with his jitters all night long.” Darcy caught his eye and jerked her head towards the hall that led back to the principal’s office. _Good luck_ she mouthed.

Peter flexed his fingers for the length of the short walk in an attempt to get his hands to stop shaking. When he entered Fury’s office, the one-eyed man pointed towards the empty chair across from his desk. “Have a seat,” he ordered.

“Before you start,” Peter said, his voice only half-cracking as he spoke, “I think I—“

“How ‘bout you let me tell you what’s going on, first,” Fury said. “I’m not firing you, so breathe, alright? This is actually kind of a promotion.”

“Promotion?” Peter questioned, his voice definitely cracking this time. He cleared his throat and repeated the word, trying to sound more confident. 

Fury nodded. “School district decided last minute to add a STEM specials class to the curriculum for all elementary schools. While the other buildings are going to be fighting over the same people, I’m lucky enough to hire from within. If you want it.”

Peter set back in the chair, trying to process his boss’s words. “STEM specials?”

“Yep. You won’t be part of the current specials rotation schedule. Instead, you’ll be worked into the daily schedule be an extra specials time during the day. The classroom teacher will be in the room with you. You’ll work together to co-teach a lesson. You’ll have forty-five minutes with each class. Same amount of planning as last year, but I’m adding you in for bus and recess duty. You’ll report to Phil as your department chair. But as long as you’re helping out the classroom teachers hit their science standards for the school year and you’re not blowing up my budget—or my school building—you can teach whatever you want.”

“Bruce should be doing this,” Peter said without thinking. 

“Agreed, which is why I asked him first,” Fury said honestly. “But he didn’t want to have to completely change his curriculum with the baby coming. And we both agreed you’d do just fine in the position. So what do you think?”

“Would I be in the same classroom?” Peter asked.

Fury shook his head. “The science lab that is barely used despite me ordering my staff to do so? That will be your room . Maintenance is double checking the sinks, sprinklers, and all the other equipment in the room. I’ve got a couple hundred dollars to spare. I know it’s not much to start out with, but I know you’re a creative kid. So what do you say?”

“You promise you’re not building me up just to fire me?” Peter asked.

“Parker,” Fury sighed.

“I mean, yes. Of course, yes.”


	8. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The summer comes to an end, and we check in on how everyone is enjoying their last taste of freedom.

"What are we thinking for Coulson?" Jessica Drew wondered, tapping her pen against her leg. "I marked him down as a six, but I don't know. Feels a little low, even for him."

May Parker adjusted her sunglasses. The sun glinted off the side of the moving truck, but not enough to obstruct her view. "Mmm, I'd go with a seven," she suggested after a minute of intense study. "There are some downsides, certainly, but he has lovely back muscles."

Over by the watering trough—or, rather, the cooler filled with ice-cold bottled water—Clint scowled. "A seven?" he demanded, sounding scandalized. "That man is at least an eight. Probably closer to a nine when you factor in his other talents."

He waggled his eyebrows, and Carol wrinkled her nose. "Gross."

"Says the woman who wanted us to bounce a quarter off her man's abs." Carol shrugged as she reached for her beer, and Jessica Cage glanced over at Clint. "You want a higher rating?" she challenged. "Convince him to lift something heavy. Possibly with his shirt off, because that tank is a crime against humanity."

"Not to interrupt or whatever," Wade called from over by the moving truck, "but do we get to comment on how you're actively objectifying us?"

From her spot sprawled out on a beach towel, Darcy snorted. "Considering that I included the rating rubric with the invitation? No."

"Didn't Natasha force you to warn them?" Pepper wondered. "Otherwise—"

"Tony and Clint would have stripped down voluntarily, and I would have suffered alone." Natasha stretched a little in her chaise lounge, a cat in a sunbeam. "Might as well take advantage of the situation."

"Times about twenty," Jessica Drew purred as Luke Cage wandered past.

His wife smacked her coworker upside the head. "No terrible thoughts unless you share them with me later," she warned, and the other Jessica saluted her with her glass of sangria.

May snorted and sipped her beer. Most of the time, officially moving into a brand new home required hiring a "professional" moving company consisting entirely of pot-bellied old men and barely pubescent college students. In a bolt of cunning that May actually envied, Natasha'd just recruited her friends and colleagues.

Specifically, her male friends and colleagues.

 _More_ specifically, her shirtless, sweaty male colleagues and their incredible—

"Steve's shoulders earn him an automatic ten, right?" Pepper asked, and everyone swiveled to blink at her. She shrugged. "I'm allowed to look, and I know Tony's weaknesses. Shoulders are pretty high on that list."

Darcy peered at her over her sunglasses. "Uh, let's circle back to how you're picking Steve's shoulders over Clint's. Are you blind? Because I know Steve's the new hottie—"

"Wait, I thought Bucky was your new hottie," Carol interrupted.

"Or Sam," Jessica Drew chimed in, pointing her pen at her best friend. "I swear she drooled over Sam at least—"

"Don't you dare talk shit about my hottie list," Darcy accused, jabbing her finger at the group. "My point is: old hottie's got shoulders for days."

"And his brother's not bad, either," Natasha said, complete with a knowing smirk that had May snorting into her beer bottle. "You could do worse than Barney Barton."

Carol tossed a glance over at Jessica Drew. "And as long as we're on the subject—"

"No," Jessica snapped back, and the special education teacher raised her hands. "Do not make me pull my trump card, Danvers. Because I will do it, and I will—"

"What is _that_?" May blurted, almost involuntarily, and the bickering instantly stopped as the rest of the girls tracked her eyes to the front stoop. Because at some point between carrying his desk into the house and now, Bruce Banner had stripped out of his shirt. 

And May—

May suddenly felt the need to fan herself. In the next lawn chair over, Jessica Cage's mouth dropped open. Even Jessica Drew, the self-proclaimed queen of treating their "hot man contest" like the Westminster Dog Show, stopped to stare.

After a few seconds of watching him talk to Thor, Carol said, "My whole scoring system is ruined."

Natasha settled back into her chair. "Sorry about that," she said, and smirked.

* * *

"Hey, Turbo, long time no see."

Fitz—well, Leo because teacher habits died hard even outside of school—jumped at least a foot in the air, and Mack bit down on his smile. Call him weak, but he liked how surprised the other guy always looked when they ran into each other, never mind the blush that crawled up his neck.

And his stubble.

And how much he cared about his friends.

And—

Hey, even Mack showed weakness every once in a while, okay?

"I," Fitz stammered, tossing a glance over his shoulder. His friends lingered at the hostess station, their grins bright as day, and he cringed at them. "We're, uh, brunch," he said. "Or, we're about to. Eat it, I mean."

Mack raised his hands. "Can't blame you for that, since I'm on my way out of here." He double-checked to see if Yo-Yo'd ditched him before leaning in closer to Fitz. "Listen, they took it off the menu, but ask for their hangover sandwich. It'll change your life."

When Fitz glanced up at him, a little wide-eyed— Well, Mack liked that, too. "Sounds good," he said. "Maybe we'll meet each other again, here? On accident, but at the same time?"

Mack smiled. "You never know," he replied, and Fitz blushed again before ducking inside the restaurant.

"I don't know that boy," Yo-Yo said, sidling up to Mack like she'd never left. "He doesn't work with us."

"Nah, he works at the middle school, I think. Friends with that British science teacher." Her mouth curved into a crooked smile, and he raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"Nothing," she replied with a shrug. "At least, not yet."

Mack just groaned.

* * *

"Do we need an intervention?" Wade asked. "I mean, I don't know what your deal is, but look like you need an intervention."

"Wade!" Peter hissed, but as usual, his roommate dodged his attempt to stomp on his toes. On the living room floor, Darcy flipped them both off without lifting her face up off the throw pillow. Regularly scheduled programming, really.

Except most the time, Darcy peppered in a little ranting with her existential depression. Lying motionless in the middle of the floor, her limbs splayed everywhere, seemed a little, well, weird.

Peter scratched a hand through his hair. "Not to sound like Wade or anything," he said, "but are you okay? Because this is a little, you know . . . "

He waved a hand in Darcy's direction as he trailed off, and Wade nodded. "You're like one of those vinyl guys outside a used-car lot after they turn off the air compressor. All floppy and sad-looking. Totally out-of-character, by the way, unless you count when you and Loki—"

This time, Peter opted to dig his elbow into Wade's side, and Wade swore as he doubled-over. He looked ready to snap Peter's head off, too, but Darcy saved him by pushing herself up off the rug. "You know what I want?" she asked, throwing up her hands. "I want to live in an alternate universe. I don't even care which one, but right now, I want to be somewhere besides here. No roommates, no feelings, just me in a dessert somewhere, listening to my iPod and not dealing with the rest of the world."

Peter frowned. "So, in terms of if you're okay—"

"More important question," Wade interrupted. "Can we be superheroes in your alternate universe?"

Darcy released an angry, strangled sound as she climbed to her feet. "You guys are the actual _worst_!" she shouted, heading for her room.

"That's not an answer!" Wade yelled after her.

* * *

"I feel like a crazy person," Jessica Drew groaned, dropping her head onto her desk. "Be my best friend. Tell me I'm totally sane and don't need a lobotomy."

"Didn't you swear me to eternal truth over chicken wings last weekend?" Carol asked, her booming voice even louder thanks to speakerphone. "I'll still lie to you if you want, but—"

"I'm holding my middle finger up to the phone," Jessica interrupted. "Just, you know, for the record."

Her bastard best friend just laughed.

The last week of the summer always felt like battening down the hatches for a hurricane, and this year— Honestly, every time Jessica lifted her head to glance at the mess around her classroom, her stomach threatened to revolt. Piles of books teetered dangerously on pretty much every bare surface, bulletin boards stood naked, and the precariously balanced stacks of student chairs reminded her a little of Stonehenge. 

Stonehenge's crappy plastic cousin, she thought, and snickered.

"Are you cracking up over there?" Carol wondered, and Jessica rolled her eyes at the phone. "Because if you want to come running—"

"You'll check me into an insane asylum because of how crazy that sounds?" Carol huffed a little, and Jessica shook her head. "I'm not actually going to suffer a mental break. Just— Remind me that I can handle all this, yeah? With work, and clubs—"

"Wait, you're keeping the chess club?" Carol squawked.

"Morales and Lee will sob their hearts out if I abolish the chess club for personal gain," Jessica retorted. "And that's not the part I'm worried about. It's—"

"You've got this," Carol said, and Jessica actually blushed at the confidence in her tone. "Besides, you lost your mind years ago. Nothing left to worry about."

"You're an asshole," Jessica decided, but as usual, Carol cackled.

* * *

"You can't just pine!" Jemma said, almost yelling at her phone. "You're capable of being a man of action, meaning that you need—"

As usual, the person on the other end of the line (Fitz, naturally) interrupted, and the whole thing devolved into a string of indecipherable noises in record time. Trip smiled, content with listening in, until Skye dropped bodily into his lap.

"She still fighting with Fitz over his totally reciprocated crush?" she asked, grabbing his bag of chips while he worked to catch his breath. "Doesn't he know by now that Jemma's like the Borg? Resistance is futile."

"Only when you're ganging up on him." She smiled, all sweetness and light, and Trip settled an arm around her waist. "Thought you were working at the school all day. Something about stoking the servers 'til they purr?"

Skye sighed. "Stroking, not stoking. Do you even listen when I talk?" He grinned, playing dumb, and she wrinkled her nose. "And I survived about an hour of work before I got bored. As much as I like my job—"

"You love your job," Trip reminded her.

"—the worst part of the summer's the last couple days. No more naps, no more _athletic_ naps—" She smirked when he rolled his eyes. "—no all-night movie marathons."

"Or constantly rewatching all the Borg episodes?" Trip asked, eyebrows raised.

"Oh, not the Borg again!" Jemma complained, dropping onto the couch next to them. Skye wriggled around 'til she rested her head on Jemma's shoulder, but Jemma scowled. "Can we please switch to another science fiction series? Please. I'll even rewatch that terrible Nathan Fillion disaster—"

Skye raised a hand. "I will literally break up with you over _Firefly_."

Jemma shrugged. "If it gets me out of another six hours of the Borg . . . " she commented, and Skye elbowed her while Trip laughed.

* * *

"Look, I'm not saying the movie's terrible," Tony said, shrugging. "I'd probably watch it a second or third time. All I'm saying is that Benedict Cumberbatch—"

"Oh, don't even start complaining about Benedict Cumberbatch," Pepper interrupted, holding up a hand. "Because I remember the first season of _Sherlock_ and your incurable man-crush."

He rolled his eyes. "Admiring an actor isn't—"

" _Admiring_?" she repeated, eyebrows raised. "I think you watched an episode a day for the first, like, three months after they showed up on Netflix. I worried we'd run out of bandwidth. Or, worse, that Nick'd catch you streaming them in the computer lab."

Tony hid his slight flush by snorting. "His first name is 'principal.'"

"And my point still stands," she replied with a smile.

He wrinkled his nose a little at that, and Pepper linked their arms together as they wandered his down the street. The small town in Maine they'd picked out to visit—plucked randomly off the internet, no preconceptions attached—bustled quietly around them, full of strangers running errands and teenagers texting on park benches. It felt easy to drift in and out of little stores, to eat brunch in their bed and breakfast before sitting out by the rocky shore, and with school rapidly approaching, Pepper appreciated the peace.

As they rounded the nearest corner, though, Tony twisted to kiss her shoulder. "Thanks," he said. "I think I needed the break."

She arched an eyebrow. "You _think_?" she repeated, and smiled when he laughed.

* * *

“What’s the special tonight?” Jessica Cage asked as she slid on to the bar stool. 

Luke smiled at her as he polished a glass. “For you? Whatever you want. Danny okay watching the baby?”

“He says he’s going to miss their weekly dates once the school year starts and I’m too tired to leave the house after five o’clock, but he may have been lying.” Jessica sighed. “I’m going to miss summer drink specials. And summer in general.”

“I’m going to miss you stopping by, but the bar’s bank account won’t miss you drinking us dry.” 

“Hey, I’m nowhere near what I drank pre-baby,” Jessica argued.

“True,” Luke conceded as he poured them each a shot of her favorite hooch, something he barely tolerated but would take a shot of just to make her happy. He slid her a tumbler and lifted his own. “To my beautiful wife. May she not kill any of her students this school year.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

* * *

Carol felt James lean his head on her shoulder. “I thought you were researching new lesson plan ideas,” he said as he looked at her phone screen. Said phone screen was open to Pinterest, and it was her original intent to look up some new activities to try out with her students this year, but then she’d gone down a rabbit hole. “Low-key wedding?” he read off of the search bar.

“Don’t get me wrong, Bucky and Steve had a great weekend—“

“But you don’t want a Tony-run wedding, and I will totally support you in that,” James promised.

“How much bribery will it take?” Carol asked.

James shrugged. “Depends on how much help I can get from Pepper. Somewhere between a distraction vacation and naming our first kid after him.”

“First?” Carol replied with a raised eyebrow.

“Only?” James offered.

Carol sighed. “You need a new best friend.”

“Why do you think I’m marrying you?”

* * *

Thor smiled. His daughter was asleep on his chest, a son between him and his wife, and his oldest child was stretched out lengthwise near his parents’ feet. Jane and Thor always made it a rule that the last week of summer would be spent following school year bedtimes. But the Friday before that, the kids were allowed to stay up as late as they wanted with a movie marathon. It was rare that any of them made it through _A New Hope_ , and that had kept true this year. As _Empire_ ’s muted credits rolled, Thor turned to Jane. “Finish the trilogy?” he whispered. 

She shook her head. “No way I’m chancing them waking up.”

“Think we’ll spend the whole night down here?” he asked. Part of their movie tradition was blowing up a couple of air mattresses and making a giant bed on the floor.

“Depends on how well you patched up these air mattresses.”

“Are you doubting my skills?” Thor challenged.

“No double entendres with three kids sleeping around us.”

* * *

“Buck, if you make one more frozen meal, we’re going to have to buy a deep freeze. And I’m pretty sure that’s not in the budget,” Steve said as he walked up behind his husband and placed a quick kiss on the side of his neck.

“Just trying to make enough to get us through the first half of the semester. I can restock us when grad school has fall break.”

“Or you could let me take over cooking every now and then,” Steve offered.

Bucky wrinkled his nose. “I really don’t mind making frozen meals.” 

Steve pinched his side before grabbing his hips and spinning him around so that they were face-to-face. “You’re going to do fine.”

Bucky shrugged. “Never said I wasn’t going to.”

“Not with words, maybe.” Bucky ducked his head at Steve’s comment, and Steve kissed his forehead. “Make you a deal: you kick ass at grad school and the only food I make is picking up desserts from the bakery.”

“Deal.”

* * *

“Can you hear me?”

Loki smiled at his computer screen. “Loud and clear. How’s wherever you are?”

“Dusty,” Sif answered. “But that’s about all I can tell you.”

“Should you be asleep?” he asked. “I know you can’t tell me the time zone or why you’re… wherever, but if you should be sleeping, I don’t want to keep you up.” 

“My shift just finished. I can chat for a second. Wouldn’t have called otherwise. Ready for the next semester?”

“Theoretically,” Loki answered. “This is my third time teaching this class, so hopefully I have a decent routine.”

“How’s your thesis goal for the week?” Sif asked.

“Let’s not talk about that. At all.”

* * *

Clint yawned and stretched. “You sure you haven’t logged enough years to retire yet?”

Phil snorted. “I’m only ten years older than you, not twenty. But, no, I haven’t reached sugar daddy age yet.” 

“Damn, ‘cause I really like these mid-morning naps. Eat breakfast, sleep, eat lunch. Good way to start the day.”

“While I don’t mind sharing Birdie’s schedule for a few weeks, you and I both know you only nap this much because you can’t sit still during the summer.”

“And I hate running in the heat,” Clint commented.

“And you hate running on a treadmill.”

“Guess we’ll have to burn calories some other way,” Clint said while reaching for Phil’s hip.

Phil slapped his hand away. “Not after you just called me old.”

* * *

Bruce flopped back onto the bed with an exhausted sigh. “I’m not sure I’m going to be able to move in the morning.”

“Welcome to my world,” Natasha grumbled .

Bruce chuckled and reached over to graze his fingertips over her stomach. “He sleeping?”

“Soon, I hope,” she answered. “We did it.”

“Did what?”

“Pulled off this crazy idea of finding a house, making it ours, and making it as much of a home as we could before both the school year got here and the baby is born.”

Bruce raised his hand, and she smiled and gave him his high five . “Score one for us.”

“We’re basking in our victory slash denial of what’s about to come for at least one night, right?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with us for another story in our Elementary School AU. The third year of school will start up after New Years.


End file.
